


Butterbeer

by green_violin_bow



Series: Butterbeer [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Both Greg and Mycroft are 18, Christmas, Controlling Parent-Child Relationship, Hogwarts Christmas is the best Christmas, M/M, Mycroft and Sherlock's parents are not the nicest, Potterlock, Potterstrade, background Johnlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-10-21 02:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 66,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10675785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: One of very few students left at Hogwarts over the Christmas holiday, final-year Slytherin student Mycroft Holmes finds himself thrown together with Gryffindor Quidditch team captain Greg Lestrade. An unlikely friendship, but one that blossoms in the huge, mostly-empty castle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote Chapter 1 for a Christmas prompt-fill, but decided that I want to play in this universe some more. I'm sorry if my Harry Potter knowledge seems awful - I'm really rusty on it all! Please tell me if something is nonsense.

Snow is falling gently from the starry heights of the ceiling as Mycroft Holmes slips quietly through the doors of the Great Hall. The Slytherin table is completely deserted. Perfect. He had counted on this. There are just a couple of other Slytherins left at Hogwarts over the Christmas holiday – a fifth-year and a young second-year student. House solidarity compels them to make desultory conversation if they attend meals at the same time, but Mycroft would rather not. He drops his Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook onto the table and helps himself to a small portion of sausages and sweet potato mash.

Having arrived deliberately so late, Mycroft does not have long to eat before the food will melt gently away from the serving dishes in front of him. But for now, he is blissfully alone in the Great Hall, apart of course from the occasional Professor. Really though, they are so far away on the great empty dais that he might as well have no company at all. He loses his attention in his book.

His reverie is interrupted abruptly by the thumping down of a bag on the bench opposite, and the clattering of cutlery against the plate opposite. “Sorry –” huffs out the boy as he drops onto the bench. “Got to steal your food. Everything’s already disappearing from the Gryffindor table and I’m starving.” He starts ladling food wildly from the serving dishes onto his plate. “I was down at the pitch trying out the new equipment and completely lost track of time.” He relaxes a little as he surveys his now-full plate of food – a rather odd selection including both rabbit pie and sticky toffee pudding.

Mycroft gives him a cold look. Wonderful. Gregory Lestrade, Gryffindor Quidditch team captain and rumoured half-Veela. His striking, ash-silver hair almost glows in the magical moonlight lancing from the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall. Still, his skin is far from the pale luminescence of most Veela. It can’t be a strong proportion of his ancestry.

He is distressingly good-looking. Mycroft digs his fingernails into his own thigh beneath the table.

Mycroft has seen the boy many times in seven years together at Hogwarts. They’ve even shared classes in a number of subjects; for a Gryffindor, Lestrade gets relatively good exam results, and is not annoyingly slow in class. They have never had a full conversation.

“The food will disappear from here too, shortly,” says Mycroft crisply.

“Mm, I know,” mumbles Lestrade through a huge mouthful of potato, pie and gravy. Or possibly toffee sauce, thinks Mycroft crossly. “Prob’ly manage to get through most of this first though,” grins the Gryffindor. Mycroft glares at the intruder and shuts his textbook with a snap.

“Right, I am going to the library,” he says tersely.

“Oi,” protests Lestrade, swallowing the mouthful. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make you leave.”

“I have finished eating,” replies Mycroft.

“No you ’aven’t,” protests Lestrade through another mouthful, gesturing at Mycroft’s plate with his fork. “Doesn’t look like you ate much.”

Mycroft isn’t sure what to say. Half his dinner __is__ left, but he certainly doesn’t want to finish it in the company of this boy.

“You’re Sherlock’s brother, aren’t you?” asks Lestrade. Mycroft’s eyes snap to his face, then away again.

“Yes,” he says cautiously.

“He’s always down at the pitch waiting for John during practice,” shrugs Lestrade, replying to Mycroft’s unspoken question. “Weird for a Gryffindor and a Ravenclaw to be so close, but I suppose you can’t stop chemistry. Or – sorry – Potions,” he flashes Mycroft a cheeky grin. “Muggle upbringing. If only Salazar Slytherin could see a filthy Gryffindor half-blood scoffing his sticky toffee pudding, eh?”

Mycroft fights back a dry laugh. “Indeed,” he says inscrutably, and Lestrade grins at him again, chuckles slightly. “By ‘chemistry’,” Mycroft adds, surprised at Lestrade’s reaction, “you mean that – you think that –” he pauses fastidiously.

“Well, not __yet,”__ smiles Lestrade. “But haven’t you seen the way they look at each other? Give ’em a couple of years.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and nods, once. Interesting. Possibly useful.

“You look surprised,” says Lestrade.

“Indeed.” Lestrade's questioning look tells him that this is an inadequate answer. “Sherlock has always been a withdrawn child. He never had __friends__ before Hogwarts.”

Lestrade nods. “Well, he seems incredibly clever,” he shrugs. “That can isolate you. And it's not easy being magical in a Muggle school. Although maybe you two didn't go.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “We were tutored.”

Lestrade grimaces. “Not easy to make friends then.”

Mycroft presses his lips together. “I suppose not.”

“Although,” adds Lestrade, his eyes soft and deep brown, “you don't seem particularly keen on the idea of friends yourself.”

Mycroft blinks at him, unsure what the correct response to this is.

“I mean,” says Lestrade quickly. “We’ve been in classes together for years. We’ve worked together on stuff, even, and I’m pretty friendly, but you were never – you didn’t want to –” his tone is getting less and less confident under Mycroft’s unblinking stare. “Maybe it’s just that you didn’t want to talk to __me__ though,” he mumbles finally, and stares down at his plate. “Bugger, the rest of my pudding’s disappeared,” he adds, with an attempt at levity.

There’s a small, awkward silence.

“I should –” begins Mycroft.

“Listen, do you want to –” stumbles Lestrade.

They pause.

“I was going to –” hesitates Lestrade. “I was thinking about going to Hogsmeade tomorrow. Meeting my Great-Aunt Mae in London for a day next week, and I was going to get her a Christmas present.” He flicks his gaze up to Mycroft’s then quickly away again, to watch the snow fall. “If you wanted, you could come too.” An owl swoops through the Hall, heading for the Professors’ table. “I mean, probably not, but since we’re here alone over Christmas. We could get a Butterbeer, go to Honeydukes. Nice to have, you know, company.” Lestrade seems to find his courage and sends a grin across the table.

Mycroft honestly isn’t sure what to say. He ought to say no, of course. This unprecedented chance to use the library in absolute peace should not be wasted. “I have not tried Butterbeer,” he hears himself say, then clamps his lips together. __What was that?__

“What?” hisses Lestrade, scandalised. “What have you been doing on all the Hogsmeade weekends? You are eighteen aren’t you?”

Mycroft shrugs with one shoulder. “It is quieter in the library when everyone else goes to Hogsmeade.”

“Oh __Mycroft,”__ grins Lestrade. “Right, well I’m not taking no for an answer now. See you on the steps outside at – nine tomorrow? Is nine okay?”

“Very well,” says Mycroft curtly. He can’t quite believe he’s just agreed to this.

“You’re going to __love__ Butterbeer,” smiles Lestrade. His soft, dark eyes are dancing with anticipated pleasure.

Mycroft clenches his fist beneath the table. Damn it. Damn __him.__ The Veela charm has obviously remained unadulterated in his bloodline, even if his skin seems to glow more like the sun than the moon.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft wakes alone in the seventh-year Slytherin dormitory with a heavy sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. The dark green drapes around his bed are keeping out the worst of the cold, but his face is chilly in the morning air. He pulls the sheets over his head and groans.

Why the _hell_ did he agree to go to Hogsmeade with Lestrade? It’s going to be an unmitigated disaster. Mycroft can feel it already, the creeping awkwardness, the basic _coldness_ inside him that makes him unsuitable for anything but chilly polite social interaction. _That_ he can do, schooled from a young age in the exact ways to behave when faced with the high-up figures from the Ministry who visit his parents regularly. Stiff, uncomfortable dinner parties; masterclasses in the exact tone of glacial obsequiousness or subtle threat to adopt in order to pull the strings of power.

But _friends?_ Gregory had seemed disappointed at Mycroft’s lack of interest in the concept. Well, Mycroft was sure that the other boy would quickly discover how misguided any attempt on that front would be. After all, he only had to be his own icy self. Doubtless Gregory would lose interest in less than one short visit to Hogsmeade.

Trying to ignore the heavy weight in his chest, Mycroft throws off the covers and pulls back the drapes. He gives a sharp hiss as the soles of his feet meet the thin dark-green carpet, just as cold as the stone floor beneath it. He grabs his wand and gives a complicated little wave, sending a stream of warm air at his feet and the carpet beneath. He pulls on trousers and his shirt from last night, before grabbing his towel and heading into the bathroom next to the dormitory. At least it too would be empty; the lack of privacy in the dormitories was distressing, especially since he was still rather tender about his appearance.

When he had started at Hogwarts, he had been rather overweight, and a few cruel jibes from his classmates had caused him to display his considerable talent for using words to cut others down to size. A couple of nasty hexes had also been thrown, and that was the start of his reputation as someone not to be messed with. Mycroft would take grudging respect and a lack of bullying, even if it did come with a reputation that made him unlikely to win friends.

Luckily by the time Sherlock – always happy to mock him on account of his size and hooked nose – joined the school, Mycroft had been through a growth spurt that had turned him into one of the tallest boys in his year, and seemed to have solved his weight problem. All the same, he still doesn’t eat much, just in case. Washing the last of the shampoo from his hair, he turns off the hot shower and wraps his towel round his hips, muttering a quick charm to clear steam from the mirror. He sighs as he does his teeth, surveying the wet mop of abundant red hair falling over his forehead. His eyes are light blue and nothing to write home about. _You know,_ Sherlock had said once, _you can tell our family is pureblood because you’ve got the most inbred lack-of-a-chin I’ve ever seen._

Mycroft finishes brushing his teeth and uses the hot-air charm to dry his hair and towel, before bracing himself to go back into the freezing dormitory. In the chilly air, he pulls on dark grey suit trousers, white shirt and Slytherin tie, then glances out of the window. It has obviously snowed all night, because the courtyard is white, with just a couple of lines of footsteps traced across it. He will certainly be cold, even in his robes, if he goes in just a shirt. Reluctantly, he bends down to his trunk and pulls out the forest-green jumper Mrs Hudson – his parents’ housekeeper – knitted herself and sent him a couple of weeks ago by owl, with a note attached that said ‘looks like snow!’. He’s tried it on only once, and has to admit the colour isn’t bad with his auburn hair and pale skin – but it’s fairly shapeless, and he does worry that it makes him look…larger than he otherwise might. He shakes his head. It’s not as though Gregory will even be able to see the thing beneath his robes.

It’s not as though Lestrade’s opinion even _matters,_ anyway.

He pulls on the jumper, then two pairs of socks and his warmest shoes. He makes sure he has some money for Hogsmeade in the pockets of his robes, then slips them on. On his way down to breakfast, he snatches up a slim tome he’d checked out of the library the day before, some background reading for his History of Magic essay. Perhaps he can concentrate on it over breakfast. _Perhaps he shouldn’t go to breakfast? Pretend to be ill? Stay in here all day, catch up on his reading – avoid this nonsensical situation…_

Down in the common room, the Bloody Baron is hovering near the fireplace. Mycroft quells his immediate reaction, not allowing the slight shiver of fear that runs down his spine to show in his expression. “Good morning, Baron,” he says politely.

The ghost’s eyes are narrowed meanly as he turns to look at Mycroft, but he confines himself to a curt and sneering “Head Boy,” in return. Mycroft makes his way out of the stone wall entrance more quickly than he otherwise might have done.

In the Great Hall, Mycroft heads to the Slytherin table without looking around. His heart is already betraying him, beating harder than it should. He makes it to his table and takes a piece of toast and some poached eggs. Pouring out a cup of tea, he risks a covert glance over at the Gryffindor table through his eyelashes, but Lestrade is not there. Mycroft manages a sip of tea, and takes a couple of deep breaths. Relaxing somewhat, he opens his book against the coffee pot and cuts into a poached egg as he resumes reading about the establishment of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.

At ten to nine, Mycroft finishes his second cup of tea and Chapter Three of his volume, and looks up to check the enchanted sky-ceiling. There are some lowering grey clouds, but no more snow just at the moment. He sighs and wipes his lips fastidiously with a napkin, the linen cold and crisp. _One last chance to just…not go,_ he thinks, staring fixedly at the teapot.

The cold is a tangible thing, hitting him hard as he steps outside the doors at the front of the castle. He pauses behind a pillar. _“Accio_ gloves,” he mutters, concentrating hard until they fall into his outstretched hands. Pulling them on, he steps out to the top of the stairs, moving hesitantly.

No sign of Lestrade. Of course – perhaps just a joke –

Suddenly the big wooden door creaks behind him, and he glances over his shoulder to see a flushed Lestrade, dark eyes sparkling, hurrying towards him. “Sorry,” he says, a little flustered. “I was practicing down at the pitch again this morning, and lost track of time – managed to get back in time for a shower, but not for breakfast.”

Mycroft glances up at Greg’s ash-silver hair, bright above his Gryffindor scarf. It’s wet, clearly straight from the shower. He clears his throat. “You should dry your hair,” he says, awkwardly. “It is very cold out here.”

“Oh, damn. Yeah, you’re right.” Greg searches in the pockets of his robe until he finds his wand, and uses it to dry his hair. Mycroft tries not to watch, not wanting to seem weird. He swallows and looks out across the snowy courtyard. “Sure you won’t need a scarf?” asks Greg, putting away his wand and pulling on his gloves.

“I shall be fine,” returns Mycroft crisply.

“You managed to have breakfast?” Greg starts down the snowy steps, sending Mycroft a smile. “What I wouldn’t give for a coffee right now! Might have to get a coffee before we get a butterbeer.”

Mycroft tucks his gloved hands into the pockets of his robe, and concentrates on crunching through the snow. He isn’t sure how to reply to this. “Were you – practicing with anyone from your team?”

“Only one of my team’s still here for the holiday,” returns Greg easily. “So I was just trying to plan some plays and get in some scoring practice. I play Chaser so any practice I can get is helpful, really.”

Mycroft nods, cautiously. He used not to attend Quidditch matches, but since he became Head Boy the headmistress let him know that it would be a good idea to come to the games. He knows which position Lestrade plays. His hair is very visible on the pitch.

“It must be very time-consuming being Captain, on top of working towards your N.E.W.T.s,” he says quietly, feeling how boring he must sound even as he says it.

Lestrade sends him a quick smile. “Nah, it’s fine,” he says. “Although I must admit, there are times when we’ve got a few essays to hand in on the same day, and we’ve got practice as well, or there’s a match coming up, that I do wonder what I’m doing – but it’s all good fun, really.”

Mycroft nods, unable to think clearly of what to say next. He can feel Lestrade watching him.

“So why are you here over the holidays?” asks Gregory.

Mycroft clears his throat slightly. “Well, Sherlock expressed a preference to stay here, and so I thought…” he hesitates. How to put it diplomatically? That home is hardly welcoming, and that Christmas is perhaps worst of all, the parade of political soirées thrown by his parents no substitute for familial warmth and happiness? That Mycroft is endlessly tired of being shown off by his parents to _the right people,_ the purebloods with _connections,_ useful for his doubtless-stellar future career? He presses his lips together and looks down at the snow.

Lestrade’s voice is compassionate as he interrupts. “Yeah, good idea to stay with your brother,” he says warmly. “I’ll miss not being with my Dad this year, but he’s finally met someone and they decided to go on a cruise. My sister and her husband have got three kids under five and their house is a complete nightmare, so I thought I’d just stay here and maybe meet up with them in London for a day sometime.”

“A – cruise?” asks Mycroft, reluctant to seem stupid. “This is a boat trip around the world, yes?”

Lestrade’s eyes crinkle as he smiles at him. “Yeah – well, I think they’re just doing the Caribbean this time actually, but yeah. First time I’ve not spent Christmas with my Dad. It’ll be weird.”

Mycroft hesitates. “So your sister is not…?”

“Magical? Nah. Complete Muggle, like my Dad.”

“Oh, so your mother –”

“Mum was the witch,” says Gregory, “but she died when I was little. Luckily she already thought I was showing signs of magic, and told my Dad what to look out for. He was all ready for the Hogwarts letter, when it came through. Sick of having to come up with explanations for my Muggle school for why weird stuff kept happening,” he chuckles.

Mycroft nods. “And your father has…met someone?” he feels terribly awkward asking such personal questions, but Gregory seems to expect it. He glances away, watching the snow-laden roofs of Hogsmeade winding into view below them.

“Yeah, at last.” Greg smiles. “It’s been a long time. But he met some woman called Julie at his dance class and they seem pretty serious. I’ve met her a couple of times. Seems nice. They’ve been saving up to go on this cruise together.” There’s a slightly awkward pause, as Mycroft isn’t at all sure what to say. “What about your parents?” asks Greg, giving Mycroft a sidelong glance. He seems aware he may be asking about sensitive territory. “Old magical family, aren’t they?”

Mycroft squints into the bright, snowy distance. “Yes. Purebloods. Slytherins. Former Death Eaters. All of that.” It comes out abrasive, harsh. He regrets the tone immediately, his cheeks flushing. “Not that I –”

Greg’s already shaking his head sympathetically. “Nah, I get it. Things are different after the war. Everything’s different, but the older generations, the older families – they don’t always get that.” He looks at Mycroft and smiles gently, deliberately. “No way you’d agree to hang out with a half-breed like me if you were into all that, even at Christmas,” he grins.

Mycroft returns the smile, rather stiffly. “My parents can be –” he hesitates. “Sherlock rebels openly –”

“Ravenclaw,” mutters Gregory, nodding.

“Mmm,” acknowledges Mycroft. “But I –” he shrugs with one shoulder. “They want me to be –”

“Minister for Magic?” Lestrade grins. “They’ll probably get their wish, if your grades are anything to go by.”

Mycroft feels his cheeks turn pink, and stares down at the snow crunching beneath their feet. Since when has Lestrade been paying attention to his grades? They are at the entrance to the village, and Lestrade gives a groan of relief as they approach the High Street.

“God, do you mind if we go straight to the Three Broomsticks and get some breakfast? I’m starving. Then maybe we could do some shopping and go back for butterbeer after that.”

Mycroft nods. “Of course,” he says, politely. “It is rather cold. I would be happy to have some more tea.”

Greg looks at him over his shoulder as he pushes open the door of the pub. “You’d rather tea than coffee?”

Mycroft stoops to follow him through the doorway. “I do drink coffee on occasion. But tea mostly in the morning.”

Greg smiles. “You get us a table, I’ll order. D’you want any food?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Should I –” awkwardly he holds out a few Sickles. “For the tea.”

“Oh!” Greg grins at him. “Nah. I’ll get this one, you get the Butterbeer later.”

The pub is very quiet so early in the day, and Mycroft easily gets a table next to a window. He stares out, watching owls winging overhead towards the castle. Greg comes over with a mug of coffee and a pot of tea. “Got you Earl Grey. That alright?”

Mycroft can’t help a small smile. “Thank you, yes.”

“You not been to the Broomsticks before, then?” asks Greg, settling into his chair and pulling his scarf from around his neck.

Mycroft shakes his head. “No. I have Apparated in the village, but not visited its establishments.”

Greg looks at him quizzically. “I didn’t see you in Apparition classes.”

“I believe the groups were split, for numbers, as with several of the subjects.”

Greg shrugs. “Ah, right. Yeah, I think I only see you in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions, but we must both be taking more than that the same.”

Mycroft nods, pouring himself a cup of tea with a splash of milk. “Indeed. In addition I am taking Arithmancy, Transfiguration, Charms, History of Magic and Muggle Studies.”

Greg makes a face. “Ugh, Arithmancy.”

Mycroft blinks at him.

“Too hard,” explains Greg, with a smile. “I’m taking Transfiguration, Charms, and Muggle Studies too. But with Care of Magical Creatures. You’re taking loads. Surprised about Muggle Studies though. Were your parents –”

Mycroft gives a very small smile. “I argued that it was important for a career in the Ministry.” He clears his throat, watching Greg’s strong fingers as he wraps his hands around his coffee mug. “And you – your career –”

Greg shifts a little in his seat. “Well – I _want_ to be an Auror, but – y’know, depends if I can get my five ‘E’s,” he mutters.

“I understand that Professor Flitwick regularly awards Gryffindor points for your work in Charms,” says Mycroft seriously, looking steadfastly into his teacup. Through his eyelashes, he can see Greg glance sharply up at him, and wills away the slight flush he can feel trying to fight its way onto his cheeks.

Both boys stare out of the window for a few moments, sipping their hot drinks. Madam Rosmerta breaks the silence, bustling over with a steaming hot bowl of porridge, topped with banana, honey and hazelnuts. She puts it carefully in front of Lestrade. “Alright there boys,” she smiles. She puts a kindly hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Sure I can’t get anything for you, duck? Tall skinny thing like you needs feeding up.” She grins as he shakes his head. “Okay, well you know where I am if you need anything.”

Gregory gives a groan as he inhales the delicious steam from the porridge. “Amazing.” He picks up his spoon and tucks in. “Oh, that’s good.” He holds out the spoon. “Want any?”

Mycroft looks at him disbelievingly and slowly shakes his head. “No, really. Thank you.”

Gregory shrugs. “I’d’ve thought you’d be hungry again after the walk.” Mycroft just pours himself another cup of tea, so Gregory smiles gently at him. “Well, I suppose you can’t go _straight_ to Minister of Magic after school,” he says. “So where are you going to go first? Department of Mysteries?”

Mycroft looks up at him quizzically. “Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I assumed,” he says quietly. “But not as an Auror. Why the Department of Mysteries?”

“You’re just quite…mysterious,” giggles Lestrade. He stops when Mycroft flushes and looks down at the table. “Hey – I just mean – you’re quite quiet, and even when we’ve worked together in class I can’t get you to talk. Nothing bad.” He sounds a little sorry for having commented. “I’m not taking the piss. You’re just shy, right? And hardworking. Figured the research stuff they do might interest you.”

Mycroft presses his hands together beneath the table. Embarrassment seems to have frozen his vocal chords. He clears his throat. “You need to buy a present for your great-aunt?” he enquires, clumsily.

Lestrade lifts his eyebrows at the change of topic, but plays along. “Yeah. I bought my Dad and sister and nieces and nephew their stuff last time I was home, on the internet. Hopefully it’s all been delivered by now. But I wanted to get my great-aunt some of those violet and rose creams from Honeydukes that you can drop into a glass of hot water and they’ll bloom like the flowers.”

Mycroft stares at him. It seems such an incongruous thing for the head of the Gryffindor Quidditch team to know about. “They’re magical,” is all he finds to say.

“Oh – yeah, no worries, so’s my great-aunt,” Gregory grins, scraping the bottom of the porridge bowl. “We’re meeting in Diagon Alley. She doesn’t really like Apparating and she hates Floo powder, so she hardly comes to Hogsmeade anymore. But she loves those chocolates. Says you can’t get them anywhere else. She likes them with jasmine tea.”

Mycroft can’t help a small smile. Gregory sits back with a satisfied sigh. He takes a sip of coffee. “She was really important to me, after my Mum died. Dad always did his best, but having a witch around, someone I could talk to when magical things happened…it was important.” He looks out of the window, dark brown eyes soft. Mycroft stays as quiet as possible, not wanting to break this unfamiliar spell.

Coming back from his reverie, Gregory frowns a little and shakes his head. “Sorry. Anyway.” His voice is a little rough, and he sounds annoyed with himself.

“No,” says Mycroft, a little too quickly. “I mean – it is quite alright.” He flicks his gaze up to Gregory’s. “Thank you,” he adds, nonsensically. Immediately he wants to kick himself.

Lestrade’s eyes are wide. Mycroft thinks that perhaps the other boy has understood too much about how rare and precious a conversation like this might be for him. He clears his throat.

“Shall we walk to Honeydukes?” adds Mycroft quickly. “It looks as though it may snow again soon.”

Greg picks up his scarf. “Good idea.”


	3. Chapter 3

Inside the warmth of Honeydukes, the sensory press is overwhelming: delicious toffee smells and the high-pitched whirr of Fizzing Whizzbees, a thousand bright candy colours on every wall. There are a few customers, evidently stocking up on Christmas treats, but Lestrade gives a quick chuckle in Mycroft’s ear. “Quietest I’ve ever seen it in here,” he says. “Really weird without all the students around. I’ll go and find those chocolates.”

Mycroft gravitates to a wooden box-tray full of Ice Mice. Most of them are packaged up above it, but a few have been placed in the tray for display. They play together, tiny sugar paws dabbing each other’s noses, tumbling over one another in a cascade of squeaks and a flurry of peppermint tails. He can’t help smiling, privately, and holds out a finger for them to sniff. One of the mice climbs boldly into his palm, cold and smooth. “You can’t stay there, you’ll melt,” mutters Mycroft under his breath.

“Never understood how people can eat those things,” says Gregory, at his elbow. Mycroft jumps, and the mouse leaps off his palm with an indignant little squeak. “I know it’s just a charm,” adds Lestrade, “but they seem too real to me.”

Mycroft shrugs with one shoulder, pushing his hands into the pockets of his robe. “I expect the charm wears off.”

“If you kept charming it, you could keep it as a pet, I suppose. Less trouble than a real rat,” smiles Gregory. “Although someone might eat it by accident.”

“One of the cats would chatter and squeak suspiciously before long,” replies Mycroft, and Gregory sends him a wry grin.

Lestrade holds up a carrier bag. “Got the chocolates, so I’m all sorted for next week. Anywhere else you want to go?”

Mycroft stares at the wall in front of him. One amongst the array of brightly-coloured jars has caught his eye.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I might –”

Lestrade follows his gaze. “Sherbet lemons?”

Mycroft clears his throat. “Not for me,” he says, quickly. “Sherlock – they were his favourite when he was young. He couldn’t say it properly, so he called them ‘Sherlock lemons’ for quite some time.”

Greg smiles warmly. “Ha. You should get him some for Christmas. Take the whole jar up to the counter, and they’ll weigh out what you want.”

Mycroft glances at the other boy briefly, then reaches the jar down. “It will just take a moment.”

“No worries,” says Greg.

Mycroft knows well that Sherlock is unlikely to react with gratitude to his gift, but perhaps it is better to get him something anyway. He can always send it anonymously by owl post. The woman behind the counter weighs out 300g of the sweets and passes him his change with a cheery, “now you have a nice Christmas, dear.”

When she asks if he wants a carrier bag, Gregory appears at his side and says easily, “nah, it’s alright, we’ve got one,” and puts the paper cone of sweets into his bag. Mycroft blinks for a few seconds before following the other boy out of the shop.

Out in the cold, Lestrade shivers and draws his scarf around his face. “You going to spend Christmas day with Sherlock, then?”

Mycroft shakes his head once, drawing his gloves on against the cold. “I do not imagine I shall see him. He and John Watson will probably mark the occasion by doing something especially illegal on castle grounds. Attempted underage Apparition, perhaps.”

Lestrade snorts. “The number of times I’ve had to plead with McGonagall already to stop her suspending Watson from the team. Pretty sure your brother’s at the bottom of most of it. I’m starting to wonder if maybe the Ravenclaw team have hired him to get my star young Chaser out of the game.”

Mycroft huffs with wry amusement. “I am afraid my brother is simply thoughtless and bent on rebellion. I can assure you he is the last student likely to interest himself in Quidditch games.”

“I’d’ve thought maybe that was you.”

“I attend the games.”

“Yeah, and I bet McGonagall told you you have to.”

Mycroft clears his throat. Gregory’s tone is teasing, but there is no hint of malice, hardly even a challenge. It seems Gregory Lestrade makes being _friendly_ rather easy. He marvels at the warmth spreading in his chest.

“Where’d’you want to go now?” asks Lestrade. “Straight back to the pub? Or – if you want – we could pop to Tomes and Scrolls for a bit?”

“The bookshop?” asks Mycroft, trying to bite back the enthusiasm in his voice. “I have visited the Diagon Alley branch…”

Lestrade’s deep brown eyes crinkle. “Great. I’ve got some research to do for my Transfiguration essay anyway, I can see if they’ve got anything new in, then look in the library for it later.”

He turns towards the opposite end of the street, stamping his feet in the snow. Mycroft follows him, hesitating over whether to ask what Lestrade plans to write about. _Too dull to discuss, perhaps,_ he thinks, burying his hands in his robe pockets.

“Dunno what you’re doing,” says Gregory from behind his scarf, “but I decided to write about the ethics of cross-species Transfiguration where the environment may be hostile or endanger the transfigured object.”

Mycroft flicks his eyes to Lestrade’s face for a moment, and nods. “A very interesting topic.”

Gregory smiles, and Mycroft glances away. “What did you do yours on?”

“It is not completely finished,” murmurs Mycroft. “But it is a comparison of ideas of naturalness and artifice in two case studies of species change by Metamorphagus and human Transfiguration.” He looks hard at the glowing windows of a cottage in the distance as he speaks, feeling instinctively how little interest such a topic can hold for Lestrade.

“Sounds really interesting,” says Gregory. “I’d like to read it, once we’ve all got our marks back and so on.”

Mycroft is struck by the emphasis Lestrade puts into the last words, but then – yes, he had been in the Potions class two years ago where another Slytherin student had been given a ‘T’ for stealing and copying Mycroft’s final essay. Mycroft had endured a series of nasty hexes for a while after that, held up as a telltale against another member of his own house. He can feel himself flush with embarrassment at the memory.

“Here we are,” Gregory says, smiling at him as he pushes open the door of a tiny, black-painted shop. It’s deceptively small, though; inside, the shop is warm and bright, with bookshelves reaching up far above the boys’ heads. Mycroft can’t stop a genuinely pleased smile escaping him. Bookshops feel like __home,__ and the pleasantly hushed atmosphere, the smell of hundreds of beautiful books, is calming. He wanders away in search of a particular volume.

Some little time later, he finds Gregory in the Transfiguration section. Mycroft hesitates slightly, but clears his throat and passes over the thick volume he’s carrying. “Chapter Nine,” he says, awkwardly. Gregory glances up at him. “I thought I’d read something. It originally appeared in _Transfiguration Today,_ but it’s been reprinted in this collection. Maurizio. It’s about transfiguring fish into air-breathing forms. Might be helpful for the essay.”

Lestrade turns to Chapter Nine and scans through the abstract. He looks up with a blinding smile. “Mycroft – that’s perfect. And the citations list will be really useful too. I’ll check with Madam Blackthorn if the library’s got it in.”

“I imagine they will have the original copy of _Transfiguration Today,_ if not the volume.”

Gregory nods. “Brilliant. Thank you.” He pulls a scrap of paper and a pen out of his pocket and scribbles down the volume title, as well as the original journal citation. He’s about to stuff them back in his pocket when he notices Mycroft staring curiously at the pen. “Oh,” laughs Lestrade. “Here.” He passes it over. “Don’t tell the teachers, but for goodness’ sake, I can’t carry a quill around with me everywhere. Dad posts me them.”

“I have seen them in Muggle Studies, of course.” Mycroft turns the cylindrical object over in his long fingers, then holds it out to the other boy.

“Keep it,” smiles Lestrade. “I’ve got loads.”

“Oh, I –” Mycroft hesitates, unsure how to react.

“Really,” says Gregory gently. His hand is warm on Mycroft’s as he pushes the pen back. “No bother. You ready for that Butterbeer now?”

Mycroft nods, slipping the biro into the inside pocket of his robes, alongside his wand.

The pub is much busier when they return, early lunchers settling down and chattering loudly about their Christmas shopping. Mycroft is glad when Lestrade heads off into the fray to find a table. Madam Rosmerta smiles at him welcomingly. “Back again duck? Right, what can I get you and your young man this time?”

Mycroft can feel it: the terrible, flaming blush spreading across his face. He coughs slightly and stares at the polished surface of the bar. “Er – two – two butterbeers please.”

“Pints? Anything to eat, m’dear?”

Mycroft agrees and then dissents, silently wondering if he should have asked whether Lestrade wants lunch. He tries to stop the redness in his cheeks, but has to admit defeat. By the time he makes his way to the small table Gregory has found for them, he knows he is an unattractive shade of beetroot. Silently, he pushes Lestrade’s butterbeer over to him, and picks up his own to take a draught.

“Oi, cheers,” smiles Lestrade, holding out his glass to be clinked. _Nasty, common habit,_ says Mycroft’s mother’s voice in the back of his brain. “Santé,” adds Gregory.

“Santé,” returns Mycroft, automatically. He takes a sip of the beer, the warming draught spreading through him to the tips of his cold toes. He can't help blinking at the wonderful sensation.

“Alright?” Gregory sounds as though he is smiling. “’S’good, isn't it?”

“Indeed,” returns Mycroft, quietly.

“You got essays for all your subjects over Christmas?”

Mycroft nods. “Yes. I still have not started the History of Magic essay. I tackled Arithmancy as soon as term ended so that I could enjoy the holiday,” he says wryly.

“You _do_ find it difficult then,” grins Lestrade.

Mycroft gives a shy tilt of the head. “Yes,” he says quietly.

“I always felt a bloody idiot in those classes,” says Lestrade, ruefully. “Definitely wouldn’t’ve got an ‘E’ if I took that to N.E.W.T.” He takes another gulp of butterbeer. “You going to work in the library this week? I’ll join you if you don’t mind.”

Mycroft gives an assenting shrug. “I thought I would.”

“So it’s alright?” asks Gregory. “If I come along.”

“Yes,” says Mycroft cautiously. “Although we will have to work in silence.”

Gregory huffs a laugh. “Yeah, don’t worry, I know Madam Blackthorn’s opinion on chatting in the library. I swear she hexed a book off the shelf onto my head when I was making too much noise in there once.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Not unlikely.”

“We could always work in one of our common rooms for a bit, if we want to talk. Although last time I waited outside yours, the Bloody Baron came along and put me right off my dinner.”

Mycroft takes a sip of butterbeer. The warm, heady feeling of contentment spreading through him feels like a cresting wave. “He was waiting by the fire this morning when I came down to breakfast,” he says. “I must admit I left more quickly than usual.”

“Urgh,” Gregory grimaces. “I think it’s pretty sick he and the Grey Lady are even in the same castle. Imagine not being able to escape the bastard who killed you even when you’re dead.”

“When I first became Head Boy I asked the headmistress whether it was possible to stop him coming into Slytherin Dungeon to frighten the younger students. Sometimes there are problems of sleeplessness among the first-years, and the girls in particular find it disturbing that he is allowed to roam so freely, given his life history. Unfortunately McGonagall said that various ways have been tried over the centuries to remove the ghosts, but that nothing has worked.”

“Good of you to try, though,” shrugs Lestrade. “If only we could get the Ghostbusters in.” Mycroft blinks at him, and Gregory starts chuckling. “I’m sorry. Muggle thing. It’s a film – a – you know, like in Muggle Studies, like you see at the cinema? It’s a kids’ film. About a team of people who hunt ghosts. They made an awesome reboot recently, with all-female ghostbusters. They’d know what to do about the Bloody Baron.”

Mycroft sighs. “It is frustrating to learn about such things in Muggle Studies, but not to be able to experience them. You saw this – film at home?”

“At the cinema with my Dad and nephew, last time I was home. I used to love the original film when I was little, so it was great to see it with Dad.” Gregory’s smile is warm, and perhaps it’s the butterbeer but Mycroft could swear that his hair is even brighter silver than it had been earlier.

“Perhaps I can find a way to watch it during the next holiday,” he says, tearing his eyes away from Lestrade’s hair.

“I forget loads of people’s families don’t have DVD players and all that,” says Greg, wonderingly. “I’ve been at this school years, but I still can’t believe we’re not allowed the internet. Although the worst is not being allowed to type our essays. Bloody quills! And parchment! Unbelievable. Surely the Ministry has adopted some of the Muggle stuff that’s really useful?” he looks rather pleadingly at Mycroft.

“I understand from my parents that many of the Muggle innovations are still strongly resisted within the Ministry,” returns Mycroft.

Greg rolls his eyes. “For god’s sake! Mobile phones. I miss my mobile so much. You should’ve heard my sister when I told her she’d have to put up with owls arriving every time I wanted to send her a quick text. And I don’t think the owls enjoy it much either, my nephew’s got one of those super-soaker guns.”

Mycroft can’t help a smile. “How old is your nephew?”

“He’s four. And my twin nieces are two. None of them seem to be magical yet, but my sister’s looking out for it, just in case.” Gregory is getting close to the end of his pint of butterbeer, and Mycroft realises that his own drink has dwindled fast too. Strange. “So where’s your family’s house then, if your parents work at the Ministry?”

“The family home is in Sussex.” Mycroft bites his lip, but the butterbeer suffuses him, and he confides. “I doubt my father would be pleased with the description of ‘work’,” he looks away across the pub. “I’d say he meddles in politics, more than anything.”

“Isn’t it harder for the old families to do that, nowadays?” asks Gregory.

“Well, somewhat. But there are old, old networks of connections within the Ministry. Much has changed, but just as much has not.” Mycroft takes another gulp of butterbeer. “I look forward to working there.” He gives a wry smile.

“Your father wants you there so he can…” Lestrade’s voice fades, unsure.

“He thinks I will be a willing pawn in his game of power,” mutters Mycroft. “I will not.” He flicks his gaze up, and finds Gregory watching him calmly.

“I believe you,” says Lestrade. There’s a silence. “Why Slytherin, then, if you’re not interested in all that?” Lestrade’s tone is curious, but tentative.

“Well, I still want to be in politics,” says Mycroft drily, and cannot stop his eyebrows shooting up when Gregory laughs loudly into his beer mug.

Their eyes meet, Lestrade’s crinkled with amusement. “D’you want another butterbeer? Or maybe we should get back to the castle. They’ll be serving lunch soon and you must be hungry.”

Mycroft has to admit he is. They finish their butterbeers and wrap up warm. Gregory holds the door open for Mycroft on the way out, causing him to nearly hit his head on the low doorway. He’s pink with embarrassment as they start walking.

Gregory clears his throat. “Clouds’re definitely getting more threatening,” he mumbles. “Looks like it’ll snow again.”

Mycroft nods. “Could be harder to practice Quidditch tomorrow.”

Lestrade sighs and looks up at the sky. “You’re right. Still, it’ll make me concentrate on my essays. Good to get a bit done before Christmas. I hate when you end up doing them all in the last three days before term starts.”

Mycroft, who has never done all his essays in the last three days before term starts, makes an assenting noise.

“So what normally happens on Christmas day itself?” asks Gregory. “Actually – not sure if you’ve stayed at Hogwarts over Christmas before. Sorry.”

“I stayed two years ago,” says Mycroft. “The only unfortunate part was the headmistress trying to make us sing carols together.”

“Oh Merlin, she’s not going to do that again, is she?” says Lestrade, looking startled.

“I expect so,” returns Mycroft glumly.

“God. Well I hope she’s not expecting much. My singing voice sounds like a bag of cats.”

“It cannot be worse than mine.”

Lestrade chuckles. “Maybe I’ll just hide in the common room and eat chocolate.” He sighs. “Oh, that’ll be weird too. No Christmas stocking. Do you guys do that? Maybe not. My Dad still makes me a stocking from Father Christmas.”

“Er –” Mycroft is trying to think of a polite way to say ‘but what’s the point of it’ when Gregory sees that he needs to explain.

“It’s got little presents in. And a clementine, a walnut and chocolate money in the bottom. My Dad always used to let me eat the chocolate money before breakfast.”

Mycroft hesitates, unsure what to say. It sounds like a nice tradition. Not something he can imagine his parents taking an interest in. Perhaps Mrs Hudson would, if he explained to the elderly witch what it was for.

“It’s a bit childish, I suppose,” mumbles Gregory.

“Oh – no –” But he doesn’t get any further, because his foot hits a patch of ice, and he flies over backwards into the snow.

Lestrade is laughing, and Mycroft can feel his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. But the butterbeer is still warming him from the inside out, and he lets himself flop down completely into the snow, as if he’s going to make a snow angel. Lestrade is bending over him, giggling, hands held out to help him up.

“You alright?” Gregory wiggles his fingers, motioning Mycroft to take his hands. “C’mon.”

But suddenly it all seems very funny to Mycroft, and he’s laughing, feet flat against the floor, knees up. Gregory’s giggling just intensifies, and now he’s not just bending over, he’s bent double.

Mycroft reaches out to take his hands, but uses the opportunity to tumble Gregory into the snow, already rolling away, expecting reprisals. Lestrade howls with mingled indignation and laughter, and grabs up a poorly-formed handful of snow. It’s unworthy of the name of ‘snowball’, really, but it hits Mycroft in the shoulder. He flings a rather better-formed one in response, kneeling up nearby. Lestrade ducks, but it hits the top of his head, the white of snow looking dull next to the spun silver strands of his hair. “Ugh,” Lestrade growls through laughter, struggling to his feet. Mycroft hastens to get up too, just in case this snowball fight is about to escalate.

“Merlin, I’m soaked,” giggles Lestrade. “You bastard.”

Mycroft can’t help laughing, too. “You’re the one flinging snow, Gregory.”

Lestrade laughs, brown eyes sparkling. “God, that’s weird. No-one calls me Gregory except my great-aunt. Mostly I’m called Lestrade here. Or Greg. You should call me Greg.” His smile is wide and unguarded.

Mycroft glances away, and back. “Right.” He hesitates. “Sorry.”

Greg pulls out his wand and shakes his head. “Oh – no.” He smiles. “Want me to dry you off? You’ve got snow all over.”

Mycroft takes out his own wand. “I – yes. I can do the same.” His skin tingles as Greg directs a powerful stream of hot air over his robes, melting the snow away and then drying them until they are warm. “Thank you.”

“Hang on, let me get your hair.” Greg stands on tiptoes, putting one hand on Mycroft’s shoulder as he dries his hair. “There,” he says, slowly withdrawing his hand.

Mycroft clears his throat, and walks slowly around Greg, directing a stream of air over his robes. He stands to one side as he dries the other boy’s silver hair, allowing the jet of hot air to ruffle it. Perhaps it’s the lingering effect of the butterbeer that prompts him to ask, _“are_ you half-Veela? Everyone always says so.”

Greg laughs. “I don’t know really. Mum had hair like this too, and she said there was some Veela in the family way back. Only whenever I had a tantrum she’d say I didn’t inherit any of the charm.”

Mycroft half-smiles.

“’S a bloody nuisance in the Muggle world though,” mumbles Greg. “Everyone thinks I’m albino or I’ve gone grey. Get questions about it all the time.”

“Sorry,” apologises Mycroft automatically.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean –” Greg stretches his neck in the stream of hot air. “That’s lovely.”

Mycroft looks away, swallowing hard. He stops the charm and puts his wand away. “Right. We should probably –”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Greg picks up the carrier bag of sweets from where he’d dropped it in the snow. “They’ll be serving lunch.”


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft is only half-awake when the insistent tapping on the dormitory window starts. He groans and postpones getting out of bed, unsure whether there’s really anything there, or whether he can sink back into sleep. Finally, though, he has to admit that there is probably an owl at the window. He wrenches the drapes open and throws himself out of bed, taking wide, hopping steps across the freezing stone floor. He shivers as he opens the window, recoiling from the icy blast. A large Barn Owl hops onto the windowsill, ruffling its feathers. It eyes him dolefully and sticks its leg out.

“Whose are you, then?” mutters Mycroft under his breath. He had been half-expecting his father’s sleek eagle owl Morgan, with a sharp missive about why he must come home. The owl withdraws its leg as he removes the note. It huddles down, blinking slowly at him while he reads.

The note is written in scruffy, businesslike writing:

 

_‘Didn’t see you at dinner last night. Not going to the pitch this morning (too much snow for me to clear) but thought I might have a fly round the grounds after breakfast before going to the library. Come with me? Meet me at breakfast at nine if so. You’ll definitely need gloves and scarf etc. Can get you a broom out of the Gryffindor Quidditch cupboard if you don’t have your own. Send Sam back to the Gryffindor dormitory. Greg’_

 

Shivering in just his pyjamas in the freezing cold dormitory, Mycroft makes his way back to the bed and checks his watch. Quarter past eight. He takes up a quill, dips it in ink, and hesitates over the parchment. He writes underneath Greg’s note.

 

_‘See you at nine.’_

 

He looks at the few words, then dips the quill again.

 

_‘See you at nine. I have my own broom. Mycroft’_

 

He folds it back up and takes it over to the owl, which eyes him shrewdly and sticks out its leg. Once the note’s attached, Mycroft says “For Greg. Gryffindor seventh-year dormitory. Thank you Sam,” and opens the window, bracing against the immediate draft of piercingly cold air. As soon as the owl has launched itself out, he slams the window closed and grabs his towel from the end of his bed.

A quick shower and hair-dry later, he stares despairingly into his trunk. He knows he’ll have to wear the shapeless jumper against the cold, but as for trousers… He owns precisely one pair of jeans, and has worn them only once, for Apparition practice. He sighs. They really would be the best option for flying. At least they are cut slim and almost black in colour, so perhaps Greg won’t notice. He pulls everything on and reaches further into his trunk, this time pulling out a sleek broomstick with Firebolt branding. He hadn’t wanted the thing, but his father had been presented with it as a ‘gift’ from some visiting diplomats and had been adamant that he should accept it.

He makes sure he has his wand, then fastens his robes over his tragically informal outfit and pushes gloves and a scarf into their copious pockets. He feels like an absolute idiot walking the corridors with such an expensive broomstick. Thoughtfully, he pauses by a statue and surveys the broom. Taking out his wand, he mutters to himself as he performs a quick little flick and twist. The broom becomes a sleek black umbrella. He hooks it over his arm and proceeds down to breakfast.

He’s greeted by Greg waving at him from the Gryffindor table. The silver-haired boy beckons him over, and grins when Mycroft rather stiffly takes a seat opposite him. “Your turn to piss off Godric this morning,” he smiles, picking up the teapot. “Tea?”

Mycroft holds out his teacup, and Greg summons the milk jug from a couple of feet away. Mycroft plucks it out of the air and adds some milk to his tea.

“Nice umbrella,” grins Greg. “Probably won’t work for flying though.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth turns up. “The broom was unwieldy.”

“Doesn’t explain why you turned it into that big brolly. Could’ve made it tiny.”

Mycroft concentrates on taking a piece of toast and spreading it with marmalade, then sipping his tea. “Did you have an enjoyable afternoon yesterday?” he asks, primly.

Greg chuckles and rolls his eyes at the evasion, but goes along with the conversation anyway. “Yeah. Had an accidental nap after lunch, then Jen Bloxam and I played chess for a while before dinner. Tried to do a bit of reading for my Charms essay in the dormitory but I was knackered and fell asleep. Not very exciting.” He takes a gulp of coffee. “You?”

“I worked in the library,” Mycroft says quietly. “Madam Blackthorn turned me out eventually.”

“You missed dinner?” Greg sounds incredulous. “No wonder I didn’t see you. Better eat more than that one piece of toast then. You must be starving.”

Mycroft looks up at the grey, cloudy ceiling. He isn’t sure how to answer, so he takes another sip of tea.

“Thought we could fly around the perimeter of the grounds,” says Greg. “But maybe not over the Forbidden Forest. Never know what might fly out.” He grins. “It might be way too cold, but we can always come back if we need to.”

Mycroft nods. “Did you see Sherlock or John Watson at dinner last night?”

“Yeah, but they were sitting at the Ravenclaw table. I get the impression John may have moved into Ravenclaw for Christmas.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “They didn’t look as if they were up to too much mischief?”

“Hard to tell,” grins Greg. “Don’t worry, when it thaws a bit I’ll get Watson to come and practice with me down at the pitch, so I’ll be able to find out more then.” He scrapes his porridge bowl. “Have to say, that wasn’t as good as the Broomsticks porridge.” Glancing at Mycroft’s slightly concerned expression, he adds, “don’t worry, your brother will probably come and watch while Watson and I practice. I’ll check he doesn’t look as if he’s planning anything illegal then.”

“It is notoriously difficult to divine that, with Sherlock,” grumbles Mycroft. “I have long suspected he is a natural born Occlumens.”

“Morning, Greg,” says a petite girl with striking brown eyes and long, unruly ringlets of hair. She settles on the bench at Greg’s right hand and runs her piercing gaze over Mycroft. “Morning,” she adds. “Can’t say I’m not surprised to see our Slytherin Head Boy at the Gryffindor table.”

“His name’s Mycroft,” says Greg, pouring another mug of coffee. “Mycroft, this is Jen. She’s fifth-year, used to be a Beater on the Gryffindor team. And a devil at Wizard Chess.” He grins widely at his ex-teammate and passes her the coffee pot.

“Well if you’d give me a proper game, Greg…” She looks across the table at Mycroft, and sighs. “Unfortunately it’s like stealing acorns from a blind pig.”

Greg raises his hands defensively. “Raised Muggle! I can’t get used to the horrific violence. Can’t concentrate, watching my poor little bastards get clubbed all the time. Play me at Muggle chess and we’ll see where we are then.”

“No chance! They don’t even move. Dull.”

“Well if you’re not prepared for a fair fight…”

“Shut up, Lestrade,” she grins, levitating a pot of yoghurt to herself from the other end of the table. “What you up to today?”

“Mycroft and I are going to fly round the grounds, then get some work done in the library this afternoon,” returns Greg. “Trying to get ahead on all the essays.”

“God, seventh-years are _boring,”_  grumbles Jen.

“Oh, alright then, what about you?”

“My parents are visiting me in Hogsmeade. They’re off to stay with my brother in Australia for a month at the end of this week – that’s why I stayed at school – but they’re taking me out for lunch and we’re going to do presents and stuff.”

“Oh, nice. Hope you have a good day.” Greg looks up to check that Mycroft’s ready to go. Mycroft nods, slightly. “Well, I think we’ll get going. Probably see you later in the common room, or at dinner.”

“Yeah, see you later,” grins Jen. “Bye,” she adds, to Mycroft.

They pause in the hallway before the front doors, pulling on their cold-weather clothing. “Jen’s a sweet girl,” says Greg, quietly. “She was a great Beater but had a bit of trouble passing Potions last year, and decided she needed more time to get through schoolwork. It was difficult replacing her on the team.”

Mycroft nods, tucking his scarf around his face. He takes out his wand and opens one of the great front doors. Outside,the snow is crisp and soft beneath their feet.

“Ugh,” shivers Greg. “Bloody hell, it’s so cold. It’ll be even colder in the air, too. Maybe this is a bad idea.”

“We should try,” mutters Mycroft, flicking his wand at the umbrella. Behind him, Greg is fighting to pull the door closed against the wind.

“Bloody hell!” Mycroft jumps, halfway through the process of pulling on his gloves. Greg’s crouching down in the snow, staring at the Firebolt. “Are you kidding me?” he squints up at Mycroft. “You – you transfigured _this_ broom?Are you bloody mad?”

Mycroft raises one shoulder in a shrug. “I did not want it in the first place. My father…received it from an ambassador, and insisted that I accept it.”

Greg stares at him in seeming incomprehension, then looks down lovingly at the sleek black broomstick. “That’s the best racing broom there is, Mycroft.”

“Yes,” says Mycroft diffidently. “It was presented as – essentially – a bribe to my father. I did not want it.”

“Have you ridden it before?”

“Once or twice. For short journeys.”

Greg’s voice is yearning as he asks, “what’s it like?”

“Like any other broom,” says Mycroft indifferently. “Perhaps a little twitchier to turn.” His cheeks are hot with embarrassment.

Greg stands up, propping the Firebolt alongside his own broom against a pillar. “Well I understand why you didn’t want it,” he says, reasonably. “But you’re really bloody lucky.” He grins at Mycroft.

Mycroft takes a deep breath behind his scarf. “What broom do you have?”

“Nimbus,” says Greg, “just a school one. They’re not that bad actually, but nothing compared to _that._  My Dad’s – y’know, he does okay from his job but I’d never ask him to buy me a broom.”

Mycroft gives a terse nod. “We should swap,” he says, crisply. “At least for your games and practices.”

Lestrade’s eyes go wide. “No way, Mycroft, you’re mad! What if it gets smashed up or something?” His eyes slide to the Firebolt. He shoves his hands into his robe pockets and hunches over a little. “What would your Quidditch team say, anyway? Don’t think they’d be too happy.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “They are hardly keen on me as it is. I spend most of each term docking them house points for cheating in games and attempted sabotage of the other teams’ players off the pitch.”

Greg chuckles. “Oh, well, I’m glad someone’s noticed,” he laughs, eyes crinkling. Mycroft looks quickly away, into the snowy distance.

“No-one here has seen me use that broom,” says Mycroft tersely. “Say it was a Christmas present from your great-aunt.”

Greg huffs with amusement, but Mycroft can tell that he’s weakening. “Pretty sure anyone who looks at me can tell I’ve not got _any_ family with that kind of money,” he mumbles, half-jokingly.

Mycroft glances at him. “Your mysterious rich Veela great-aunt,” he says, with a twitch at the corner of his lips.

Greg smiles. “Seriously Mycroft, I definitely shouldn’t. But – could I – would you mind if I have a go now?”

Mycroft nods. “Of course,” he says, shortly. He picks up the Nimbus and mounts, taking off quickly to avoid further conversation. Talking about his family and their money is a shortcut to a miserable headache.

The air is uncompromisingly freezing, stealing his breath for a few moments. He hovers, drawing his scarf up over his nose and mouth and tucking the ends firmly under his robes.

Greg hovers next to him, face lit up with excitement about the broom. “Have you tested how fast it goes?” he calls, against the wind.

Mycroft shakes his head, and Greg laughs, eyes sparkling. “Follow me,” he shouts over his shoulder, as he hunkers down. “Let’s see what it can do!”

Mycroft can’t help smiling, behind his scarf. He leans forward and tests the pace of the Nimbus, forgetting how cold it is as he fixes his eyes on Greg’s receding form. Greg is clearly heading for the Quidditch pitch, accelerating fast. He’s bombing in a straight line, and Mycroft manages to close the distance between them slightly, but not by much.

It’s a long time since he last flew this fast, just for the fun of it; the wind whipping through his hair feels invigorating. Ahead, Greg reaches the Quidditch hoops and pulls the broom up, executing a series of turns and rolls that has Mycroft catching his breath, knuckles whitening on the smooth wooden handle. Then Greg is coming straight towards him, diverting at the last second into another sharp turn and roll. “This is amazing!” he yells, words whipped away by wind and velocity.

Mycroft turns his own broom up, then divebombs towards the middle Quidditch hoop and right through it. He turns and flies a full lap of the pitch more slowly, watching Greg climb higher and higher before corkscrewing downwards and pulling up at the last second, near snowy ground level. Greg brings the Firebolt level with Mycroft, hovering close. Mycroft tries not to notice the way that Greg’s knee brushes against his own, sometimes.

“This broom is _incredible,_ Mycroft,” says Greg, grin huge, eyes sparkling. “Unbelievable. It turns so quickly, and gets up to speed in seconds…”

Greg’s enthusiasm is infectious, and Mycroft can’t help smiling back. “I certainly could not catch up,” he returns.

“Nah, but you’re really not a bad flier,” says Greg admiringly. “Want to go a bit further round? I’ve worked off my need for speed now, promise.”

Mycroft nods, and they set off towards the edge of school grounds. They can’t talk easily, the wind making it hard to hear one another, but the snowy scene is worth admiring in silence. The owls flurrying in and out of the owlery, the stark stone of the castle towers against white snow and lowering grey cloud, the welcoming lights of Hogsmeade further below – suddenly Mycroft can see a beauty in it all that he has not appreciated before.

“Looks like the lake’s starting to freeze,” shouts Greg, pointing further below them. “Maybe we’ll be able to skate.”

The idea sounds embarrassing to Mycroft, who last skated when he was about nine. He hadn’t been particularly good at it even then, but he nods nonetheless, not choosing to put his thoughts into words.

“Look.” Greg points again, this time at the path to Hogsmeade. “Jen going to meet her parents, I guess.”

Mycroft glances at the other boy’s eager expression, and drops his eyes quickly to the far-away figure below. “I must admit to being jealous of the warmth of the pub.” He looks away, back towards the castle.

“Tell me about it,” replies Greg. “I’m bloody freezing. Should we go back? We could get some hot chocolate and warm up before lunch.”

Mycroft looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “That might be – if you do not mind.”

“Nah, course not,” Greg says easily. “Want to race back?” Mycroft can hear the grin in the other boy’s voice.

“The result seems like a foregone conclusion,” he says, evenly. “But yes.” His assent is whipped away behind him as he accelerates, leaning forward as hard as possible and putting every ounce of concentration into the broom.

“Bastard,” he hears, from far behind. He can also hear Greg’s delighted whoops of laughter as he starts to gain, closing the distance between them.

Mycroft can’t help grinning. He wills the broom on, flattening himself to the handle. He knows it’s a lost cause; no way the Gryffindor team captain, on a broom like that, is going to lose. But still, he can give him a run for his money.

Greg catches him up just a few metres from the castle steps, zooming past with a triumphant “ha!”, and coming back to loop around him as they land. “Cheat,” giggles Greg.

“Slytherin,” says Mycroft, suddenly warm, pulling the scarf from around his neck. He can’t help giving Greg a small smile.

“Well, you did lend me the best broom,” says Greg, holding it out. “Here.”

“I really – I do not want it,” says Mycroft, looking at the snowy steps, the lines of footprints up and down. “Please feel free to use it. A loan only.”

“What if your team smash it up next time we play them?” says Greg, only half-teasing.

“Then you have the Nimbus to return to.”

“I’ll be spoilt forever.”

“I do not use the broomstick.”

“You should. You ride really well.”

Mycroft feels his cheeks get pink with more than just the rosiness of a long ride in bitterly cold weather. He shrugs and holds the Nimbus out to Greg. “Whatever you prefer.”

There is a long moment. Mycroft fixes his eyes on the handle of the Nimbus, but he can feel Greg’s gaze on his face.

“Alright,” says Greg. “But just a loan. And if it gets smashed up I’ll pay you back.”

Mycroft nods, tersely, wanting to finish this conversation. He pulls his gloves off and opens the front door. They spill inside.

“Think my feet are actually frozen,” grumbles Greg. “Come on.” He grabs Mycroft’s robe sleeve to pull him along, an unfamiliar route.

“Where are we going?”

“Kitchens.” Greg rubs his hands together in an attempt to warm them up. “I need some hot chocolate.”

“Do the house elves mind?”

“You’ve never scrounged extra food off the house elves?” Greg gives him a disbelieving look. “Merlin, no wonder you’re Head Boy.” He grins when Mycroft shoves him gently with his shoulder. “Sometimes it’s me and the whole team down in the kitchen, if I accidentally make them miss dinner with practice or something.”

“Next time there is a house elf union strike, you will be the cause.”

Greg snorts. “Shhh.” He pulls Mycroft down another set of stairs and into the bright, cheerful din of the kitchen. “Mariette,” he smiles, greeting the nearest house elf, a stocky young woman in kitchen uniform and huge glasses to cover her enormous eyes.

“Mister Lestrade,” she returns, giving him a wide smile. “You have been practicing Quidditch, yes?”

“Not this time,” he chuckles, “although my friend and I were flying around outside. We got frozen through. We were just wondering if we could have a flask of hot chocolate to warm us up?”

“No problem, Mister Lestrade.” She bustles off and returns a couple of minutes later, with a huge flask and two mugs. “You spend too much time outside.”

Greg laughs. “Thanks so much, Mariette.”

“Until the next time you forget to eat, Mister Lestrade.”

Greg passes Mycroft the two mugs, and they climb the stairs away from the kitchen. “See? They don’t mind really,” says Greg. “You should see the amount of leftovers they have every day from dinner, anyway. We never make them cook anything extra for us.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow as they reach the bottom of the main stairs. He hesitates. “Would you – like to come to the Slytherin common room?”

“Nah,” says Greg, easily. “I don’t want to sit in your freezing dungeon with the Baron. Come to mine instead.”

Mycroft follows Greg up the correct sequence of stairways and corridors. He has been to the Gryffindor common room before in the course of his Head Boy duties, but he is hardly practised at getting there. The Fat Lady is napping as they approach, but jerks awake as they come to a halt in front of her portrait. “Slytherin, eh?” she says, testily. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into with that one, Lestrade?”

Uncharacteristically, Greg goes rather pink. “He’s Head Boy. Coconut milk.”

“Well that’s no guarantee he’s not a bad lot,” grumbles the Fat Lady as the portrait swings open. “I think we all know a certain _other Slytherin_ who was made Head Boy. Still, students, they never listen, boys especially, always think with their –”

Greg slams the portrait hole shut behind them and clears his throat. “Sorry.”

Mycroft puts the mugs down on the table in front of the fire, leans the Nimbus against a wall, and draws two of the armchairs closer to the welcoming, crackling flames. “It is hardly the first time the comparison has been made.”

Greg puts the flask down next to the mugs, lays the Firebolt with loving care on a nearby sofa and drops into one of the armchairs. “Yeah, well, that’s crap,” he says crossly. “It’s a shitty thing to say.”

“And entirely inaccurate,” adds Mycroft. “I understand Voldemort was very charismatic as Tom Riddle.”

Greg snorts and starts to giggle, and Mycroft can’t help a flicker of a smile at the infectious sound. “See?” grins Greg. “I doubt the Dark Lord was a laugh.” He bends down and pushes off his shoes and socks, then stretches his feet out towards the fire. “Oh, that’s amazing. I thought my feet were going to fall off.”

Mycroft leans over to open the flask, and pours them two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. He passes one to Greg, ignoring the strange flip of nerves he feels in the pit of his stomach when their fingers touch.

The first sip is glorious, the deliciously sweet liquid starting to warm him straight away. “Mmmm, good stuff,” groans Greg. “We should’ve brought some extra butterbeer back with us yesterday. Madam Rosmerta would’ve sold us some bottles. I didn’t think.” He takes another sip. “Don’t you want to warm your feet up?”

Awkwardly, Mycroft toes off his leather shoes and stretches his socked feet onto the hearth. The flickering heat from the fire feels glorious.

“Despite the Fat Lady, I bet this is still comfier than your dungeon, right?” grins Greg, eyes crinkled over the rim of his mug.

“You have not visited the Slytherin common room?”

Greg shakes his head. “Never had a Slytherin mate before, to be honest.” Mycroft closes his eyes as he sips his hot chocolate. Is that what they are? Mates? “I know things’ve changed a lot since the war,” continues Greg, “but being on the Quidditch team and everything, we tend to get a bit more hassle off the Slytherins than others.”

Mycroft nods, staring at the shapeshifting patterns of the flames. They are mesmerising. “Our team’s behaviour is appalling.”

“Yeah, well, not all Slytherins are like that,” says Greg, warmly. Mycroft looks at him from the corner of his eye, but the other boy’s gaze is fixed on the blaze too. His hair glints with reflected silver fire.

Mycroft finishes his mug of hot chocolate, and Greg draws his feet away from the fire and leans over to open the flask again. “Another cup?” Unable to resist, Mycroft nods, and receives another steaming mugful. He tries to concentrate on the fire, rather than the feeling of Greg’s fingers brushing his own. Greg stretches his feet back to the warmth again, and Mycroft shifts minutely away as he feels Greg’s foot accidentally nudge his toe.

Mycroft clears his throat. “You play chess?” he asks, tentatively.

“Yeah,” returns Greg sleepily. “But I decided after yesterday’s game I’ve had enough of Wizard Chess. It’s nasty.” He yawns. “God, I could fall asleep, and it’s only lunchtime. This is how I ended up napping yesterday.”

“I have never played Muggle chess,” replies Mycroft. “Does it just…not move?”

“Yeah,” says Greg with a smile. “No-one gets horribly clubbed to death at all. Unless you play with the wrong person of course.”

Mycroft smiles. “Intriguing.”

“I’ll get my great-aunt to bring me a set if you want to play me,” says Greg. “She taught me. She doesn’t like the Wizard version either. She’s got loads of sets.”

“I should enjoy that.”

“Cool.” Greg yawns again, and Mycroft shifts in his chair. On edge, he does not want to bore Greg, but is finding it hard to think of a topic of conversation which might be interesting. He puts his mug down and twists his fingers together in his lap. “Still happy to go to the library together after lunch?” mumbles Greg. “Hopefully that’ll stop me sleeping.”

“It does not seem to stop a large number of students from sleeping.”

Greg laughs. “Okay, I’m not that bad. I’ve never actually slept in there.”

“I had to use _Silencio_ on Hobday before last year’s exams because he was snoring so loudly while I was trying to work.”

“Merlin,” snorts Greg. “Did you remember to lift it before you left?”

“I had to take it off quickly because Madam Blackthorn came to get us all out,” says Mycroft. “I didn’t think he would appreciate knowing what I’d done.”

“Maybe not. Oh well, I know not to sleep in the library now.”

“Well, do not snore, in any case.”

Greg grins at him and finishes his second mug of hot chocolate. “No, Head Boy.”

Mycroft’s stomach flips and he looks back to the fire quickly.

“Want to go and have some lunch?” Greg’s sentence ends on another yawn.

Mycroft nods. “Perhaps I shall catch sight of my little brother, in the distance,” he says, wryly.

“Don’t count on it,” Greg chuckles, starting to pull his socks and shoes back on. “Come up to the dorm for a minute? I’m just going to put the brooms away. Probably easier to leave the Nimbus here too, rather than going over to your dorm.”

Mycroft waits awkwardly by the door of the Gryffindor seventh-year dormitory. Greg opens his trunk and packs the broomsticks inside.

“Exactly the same as your dorm?” he asks, smiling at Mycroft. He pulls a backpack from under the bed and adds a few books, pens and notebooks to it.

“In essentials. I think ours is colder.”

“Well, it is a dungeon.”

“In fact the dormitories are above ground.”

“Oh well, that’s not so bad,” Greg chuckles. “They gave you a window and everything. I did wonder when I sent the owl this morning.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Mycroft. Mycroft?”

Mycroft looks up from the notes he’s making for his Potions essay. “Mmm?” he mutters, absently.

“God, how do you do that? You’re concentrating so hard you can barely hear me, aren't you?”

Mycroft shakes his head and looks down at his parchment again, attempting to recapture an escaped thought. It has gone. He looks back up to find Greg smiling at him.

“It’s dinnertime,” whispers Greg. “Come on, no way I’m letting you stay here until Madam Blackthorn throws you out again.”

Mycroft sighs and blows on the last couple of lines he wrote, drying the ink, then rolls up the parchment and starts to pack his things away.

They walk out of the library in silence, but Greg groans and stretches as soon as they’re out in the corridor. “Bloody hell,” he says. “I got quite a lot done. Knackered now. How about you? Looked like you got through a lot.”

Mycroft tips his head in shy assent, pushing his hands into the pockets of his robes.

There’s a delicious-looking pudding at the Gryffindor table, so Greg insists they stay there. Mycroft is rather quiet and abstracted, still half-thinking about his essay. He manages to eat some fish and vegetables, but jumps when Greg waves a hand in his eyeline.

“Hey, Earth calling Mycroft Holmes,” smiles Greg.

Mycroft puts his cutlery down, knots his fingers together under the table and bites his lip. “Apologies.”

“No, it’s alright – just seems like I’m _really_ dull this evening,” says Greg, jokingly.

“I cannot find the key to a particular reaction. I confess I am used to working for a few more hours in the evening, and was concentrating…” he trails off, frowning.

“You mean you _regularly_ miss dinner to work all night?”

Mycroft cannot understand why Greg appears to be staring at him in horror. “Not during term time. The Professors expect that the Head Boy should be present for all meals, in order to set an example.”

“Well, good, but…” Greg sighs. “What’s the thing you’re working on for Potions? What’s your essay on?”

Mycroft fusses with his napkin, folding it an unnecessary number of times. “Eliminating susceptibility to Wiggenwald Potion by addition of certain elements to the standard Draught of Living Death.”

“Blimey. If there’s no antidote, at what point does it stop being a Draught of _Living_ Death and become more of – er – just a poison?” Greg grins.

Mycroft sighs. “That is my current dilemma. Without the resources to practice, I cannot accurately test the exact amounts and method for a much more precisely-timed, and one hundred percent irreversible, Draught. The idea being that the subject should be as dead, but only for a very predictable amount of time according to dosage. Thus avoiding the threat of discovery by force-feeding of the antidote.”

“Maybe as Head Boy you could ask Prof Delane for the ingredients? He might agree.”

Mycroft shrugs. “Perhaps.”

“If you do get permission, can you try and get him to let me practice Amortentia? I got my lowest mark ever on that love potion we had to make last term, and Amortentia is going to be our final coursework.” Greg sighs. “It just creeps me out, you know? I don’t think _anyone_ should be making love potions, really.”

Mycroft blinks. “It certainly causes issues every year, especially when the younger students become involved.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I had a right go at Pearl Cram last term. She’d taken three Galleons off some poor little third year who wanted some potion and was prepared to pay. You heard of date rape?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I suspect I can guess what it is.”

“Yeah, well. It’s a big thing in Muggle clubs and bars. Either getting people so drunk they can’t think straight, or using this drug called Rohypnol to knock ’em out and take them home. To be honest I can’t see much difference between love potions and all that.” Greg shakes his head. “And I wouldn’t mind so much, but the Professors don’t exactly talk to us about the ethics of it all, do they?”

Mycroft nods curtly. “It is troubling.”

Greg turns his attention to the steamed chocolate pudding and custard, ladling a large helping onto his own plate. “Want some?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No thank you.” He looks up sharply and there, entering the Great Hall deep in whispered conversation, are Sherlock and John Watson. He catches his little brother’s eye and beckons him over, but Sherlock just smirks at him and directs John to the Ravenclaw table.

“Oi, Watson,” shouts Greg. “Sit with us, please.”

Reluctantly, John tugs Sherlock over to the Gryffindor table, taking a seat next to Mycroft. Sherlock moves around to sit next to Greg, deliberately not opposite Mycroft. Greg shuffles up.

“Hello, little brother,” says Mycroft. “I seem not to have seen you for days.”

“Hello, large brother,” returns Sherlock pleasantly. “I seem to see far too much of you everywhere I turn.”

Greg rolls his eyes and resumes eating his pudding.

“What have you and John been doing?” asks Mycroft. “Anything disgraceful that the headmistress is currently writing to our parents about?”

“Please keep your abnormally large and ugly nose out of my business, _Mycroft,”_ shoots back Sherlock. He takes out his wand. “Maybe your badge should say ‘Nose Boy’ instead of ‘Head Boy’.”

Greg gives the second-year a long, appraising look, then pushes a bowl of potatoes towards him. “Do neither of you Holmeses eat at all?”

“Mycroft does,” says Sherlock sweetly, chucking different foods at random onto his plate, then ignoring it all. “I’ve never seen you and my dear brother dragging around the castle together before.”

“Yeah, well, I usually barely get time to hang out with my mates in Gryffindor, let alone make friends in other houses,” says Greg, through a mouthful of custard. “You and John are a rarity. And you must know how much time Quidditch takes up for him.”

“Hmmm,” says Sherlock, sharply. It is painfully clear to Mycroft that he resents Greg’s indulgent tone. Silently, Mycroft sighs and braces himself. “Well, the dubious appeal of Mycroft’s _friendship_ must be greatly enhanced by the fact that there’s almost no-one else in the castle to talk to. Although there are still owls. Or even the walls.”

Greg looks taken aback, staring at the sharp-featured boy with clear dismay. Mycroft sees the distinct marks of satisfaction in the set of his little brother’s chin.

Jen walks into a tense silence, dropping her bag on the bench at the other side of Greg, and helping herself to macaroni cheese.

“Good day?” asks Greg.

“Mmm, thanks, really nice,” she says happily. “Don’t get how I’m hungry again, lunch at the Broomsticks was massive. How about you?” Her nod clearly includes Mycroft as well as Greg in the question. “I’d’ve thought it was a bit cold to be out for long on the broom.”

Sherlock snorts into the glass of pumpkin juice he’s drinking, sending John Watson off into a silent fit of the giggles. “Are you seriously telling me that my brother hauled his enormous bulk onto a broomstick this morning?” he says, in a tone of utter disbelief.

Mycroft fights the urge to resort to _Silencio._

Greg’s head snaps round. “Well I understand from the Ravenclaw team captain that flying isn’t exactly your forte,” he says, with an obvious effort to speak calmly. “She said she helped out with the flying lessons, and you were much cockier on the ground than you were in the air.”

Sherlock smiles coldly, his gaze sliding from Greg to Mycroft and back. “I thought you did not have time to make friends with students from other houses? Although of course the rumours from last term did suggest that you were far more than _friends_ with Lara Urquart.”

There is a rather deathly silence. Mycroft feels suddenly cold and tired, and he could do without the heavy feeling in his stomach. “Please refrain from speaking to senior students in that fashion, Sherlock,” he says, with chilly politeness. “It will only lose house points for Ravenclaw.”

“Come on John,” says Sherlock, with a thin smile. “I’ve had enough dinner.”

“Hey, Watson,” Greg calls after them. “I’ll need you for Quidditch practice as soon as the snow eases off.”

John turns round and nods at him, then runs after Sherlock.

_“That’s_ your brother?” asks Jen.

“Yes,” replies Mycroft exhaustedly. He picks up his bag and levers himself off the bench. “Goodnight.”

*

The morning is, if anything, even colder than the preceding one. Mycroft spends it in bed, unable to motivate himself even to read. He cannot remember the last time he had a lie-in. Near lunchtime, he drags himself out of bed and runs a deep bubble bath, foam heaped high over the rim of the claw-foot tub. Each foot is fashioned after that of a different animal.

He sinks into the scalding-hot water, catching his breath at the heat, playing long fingers through the foam. The dull, heavy ache in his stomach is annoying. He has no desire for lunch.

The afternoon passes quickly as he makes notes for his History of Magic essay, curled in the deep window seat of the seventh-year dormitory, flicking through the pile of books and journals he’d checked out of the library a few days before. When he gets up to fetch a glass of water, he realises how cold he is. Eventually he resorts to wrapping himself in the blanket from his bed.

He knows the throbbing headache is because he has not eaten, but cannot motivate himself to appear in the Great Hall for dinner. He drinks a few more glasses of water and tries to lose himself in the essay notes again, less effectively than before.

Around ten, he opens the window for the fresh air. As the icy blast hits, he’s already clenching his teeth to stop them chattering, but the freezing night air is welcome all the same. It seems to clear his thoughts a little. He watches the stars.

The last time he felt such apathy was at home during the summer holiday, after another charged confrontation with his father. With a half-shake of the head, he allows his thoughts to shy away from that. Useless to consider it.

He shuts the window when he can no longer stand the cold. Snow is just beginning to fall again, lazy flakes blown in flurries by the night air. He wears two pairs of socks to bed, and the green jumper over his pyjamas.

He sleeps fitfully through a carnival of bad dreams, and does not hear the tapping of an owl at the window.

*

The pressing necessity for breakfast drives him out of bed early the next morning. Needing to feel ready for the day, he showers and dresses carefully; smart trousers, shirt and waistcoat under his robes, with his Slytherin tie.

It is early, and the only other person at breakfast is the headmistress, who nods and says “Holmes,” from the dais, but does not interrupt her perusal of the _Prophet._ Mycroft drops his bag next to the Slytherin bench and takes a portion of fruit and yoghurt, as well as a cup of tea.

The tea is glorious, rich and malty, but he only truly understands how hungry he is as soon as he starts to eat. He props his book against the coffee pot and loses himself to it.

Only once he has had some more tea and a slice of toast does he feel ready to move to the library. He thinks longingly of the flask of hot chocolate; a cup of that or some tea would go down well with his essay. He glances up as he picks up his bag. The vaults of the enchanted ceiling are a clear grey-white, devoid of threatening snow clouds.

He’s fussing with the strap of his bag as he approaches the bottom of the main staircase, so he doesn’t see Greg at first.

“Mycroft!” Greg’s voice is warm.

Mycroft freezes in place at the bottom of the staircase, and slowly raises his gaze. Greg – _faded jeans and soft charcoal jumper under his robes, silver hair tousled_ – is a couple of steps above him.

“You’re alright then?” Greg says, taking one more step down. They are the same height like this. Mycroft blinks and looks hard at the bannister. “Didn’t see you yesterday,” mumbles Greg.

Mycroft clears his throat. “We must have missed one another.” He can feel Greg’s gaze on his face. He doesn’t meet it.

“Yeah. Didn’t see you at meals or in the library.”

“Mmm,” returns Mycroft.

Greg takes a breath. “Right. Well...I was just going to breakfast.” There’s a pause. “You’ve eaten?”

“Yes.” The silence is unbearable. Mycroft moves slightly to the side, to allow Greg to pass.

“Okay. Well I might see you in a bit. In the library.”

Mycroft gives a noncommittal tilt of the head, and returns to fussing with the strap of his bag. He moves away up the staircase, resisting the urge to take it two steps at a time.

The library is chilly. He picks a small alcove in the History of Magic section, a table with benches on either side. He uses the hot-air charm to warm the alcove for a little while, until at last he can remove his robes and work in just his shirt and waistcoat. Concentrating hard, he weaves a shield charm over the entrance to his alcove, and settles with his books around him.

Reading over his notes from the day before, the threads of the essay start to come together. Mycroft loses time, noting down quotations and references.

_The Cardiff elf coup of 1911 came about through a combination of factors, enabled by the fact that the city was founded on the remains of an undetected faery ring. This formed the basis for the coup-by-stealth planned by the Sidhe; a slow reassertion of ancient rites –_

He feels the intimate mental _snap_ that means a charm you were controlling, no matter how unconsciously, has been lifted away. Mycroft’s chain of thought breaks. He looks up accusingly.

Greg looks at him uncertainly, and rests the flask on the end of the table. “You can do a shield charm?” he whispers.

“You can break one,” returns Mycroft quietly, watchful.

“Yeah, well, that’s easier than making ’em.” Greg shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. “Can I sit with you?” He moves the flask slightly further onto the table. “I brought tea. Earl Grey.”

Mycroft looks up at Greg, at his drawn-down brows and the way he is biting his bottom lip. Quickly, he flicks his gaze elsewhere, to the shelves of books behind the other boy. He does not want this, to share space with another student, whose companionship is – _of course, and how carelessly egotistical of him to have supposed otherwise_ – as conditional it is fleeting. Why, after all, would the Gryffindor team captain choose to spend time with him? And yes, Sherlock’s words were true. There was no-one else around for Greg to talk to. That was the unvarnished truth.

Mycroft shifts along to the end of the bench, gathering his notes, quills and books more closely around him. There is room at the other end of the table, now. He flicks his gaze approximately towards Greg, and indicates the free space. He turns back to his books, attempting to ignore the way his breath comes faster, how tight his chest feels.

“Cold in here,” whispers Greg, unpacking his notebooks and the strange tubular pens from his bag. “Don’t know how you’re sitting here in just your waistcoat.”

Mycroft regulates his sharp catch of breath. He senses derision. The clothes which make him feel most comfortable have always attracted opprobrium from his peers. He straightens his back and raises one shoulder in an elegant shrug. He pulls his robes back on.

“I didn’t mean – I wasn’t –” Greg bites his lip and seems to give up his thought. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He’s already pulling the flask towards him, unpacking a couple of plastic cups from his backpack.

Mycroft can’t resist. “Yes, thank you,” he returns, hesitantly.

Greg’s smile is overbright, relieved, as he pours the cups of tea. “I already put milk in,” he mutters. “Hope it’s how you like it.”

Mycroft stops his eyebrows from rising. Greg had brought the tea along specifically with him in mind. A treacherous thought occurs to him: does Greg _like_ tea? He has only seen him drink coffee before. He clamps down on the thought, flicks his eyes back to his parchment, to the quill threatening to blot. Greg holds out the cup of tea, pausing for a moment, then places it next to Mycroft’s hand when he does not reach for it.

“Thank you,” murmurs Mycroft again. He takes a sip; the Earl Grey is excellent, subtle and delicious.

“You ought to put that shield charm up again,” whispers Greg. “Blackthorn’ll murder us if she catches us drinking tea around her books.”

Mycroft can’t deny the truth of this. “Very well. Perhaps –” he hesitates, “– if you could put up a silencing charm.”

“Yeah, no worries,” Greg’s smile is bright. He stands up and draws around them, a circle of protective silence. Mycroft closes his eyes and picks up the threads of the shield charm, concentrating hard, focusing it particularly on the entrance to the alcove.

“Amazing,” says Greg enthusiastically – and at normal volume – when Mycroft opens his eyes again. “That’s advanced stuff, Mycroft.”

Mycroft clamps down on the pleased smile that threatens to curl the corners of his mouth. “It is certainly useful,” he returns, quietly.

Greg nods. “Definitely need to learn that one.” He starts sorting his books, notebooks and pens, and opens a heavy tome to a bookmark. He sighs. “So what you working on today, then?”

Mycroft looks down at his notes. “History of Magic.”

“Ugh.” Greg grins. “Not my favourite. Binns killed it for me.”

Mycroft picks up his quill. “His classes are rather uninspiring.”

“Understatement,” grumbles Greg over the rim of his cup. He takes a sip of tea.

Mycroft runs his finger down the page of cramped text he had been reading, attempting to marshal his thoughts. It is significantly more difficult now. He is painfully conscious of Greg’s presence.

“Mycroft,” says Greg, hesitantly. Mycroft glances at him obliquely, taken aback by the cautious tone. “Listen – I’m sorry about dinner the other day,” says Greg in a rush. “I didn’t realise Sherlock could be so – and I think – I think I made things a bit worse –” he agitates a pen between his strong fingers.

Mycroft clears his throat. “It is impossible to predict how my brother will behave,”he says flatly. “It was not due to you.”

“Yeah, but…” Greg swallows. “Some of the stuff he was saying – I mean, I didn’t know he was like that with you.”

Mycroft feels his cheeks burn, and looks determinedly at his book.

“But – but the other thing was,” mumbles Greg. “What he was saying about me and Lara – I mean, we did have a bit of a – a _thing,_ but it wasn’t anything serious and it just sort of…fizzled out, y’know, we’re not – I mean…” he seems to get stuck, and picks up his cup of tea.

Mycroft glances at him, fighting the feeling of his heart swelling in his chest. “It is hardly my business, Greg,” he says dispassionately. “I do not listen to school gossip.”

“No, I mean – it’s not like it matters,” adds Greg hastily. “I just didn’t want you to think –” he clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Right.” Mycroft picks up his tea and savours the chance to close his eyes as he takes a long, slow sip. He tries to shut down his thoughts.

“Er.” says Greg awkwardly. “But Sherlock was so nasty to you. What’s all that about?”

Mycroft lowers his cup of tea and blinks for a few moments. “Sherlock rebels absolutely against our parents’ behaviour. I…I have found it easier to appear to comply. He does not seem to understand that, as the elder by five years in – in such a family, there are pressures on me that…” He sighs; takes a breath. “He believes that, for the most part, I share their predilection for power at all costs.” Wryly, he adds, “being twelve, he expresses that through insults of a highly personal nature.”

Greg tips his head, a sign of understanding. “Well everything he was saying was bollocks,” he mutters awkwardly.

Mycroft fights to keep his face impassive, and takes another sip of tea. His mind races.

Suddenly, Greg tenses and pulls out his wand. “Oh crap,” he says, whispering even though he doesn’t need to. “Blackthorn’s coming.”

Mycroft sits up straight and moves the two cups of tea quickly behind a protective pile of books.

The librarian moves closer, looking directly at the alcove. The two boys share a glance. Greg waves his wand at the flask and mutters a Transfiguration spell.

Mycroft feels the assault against his shield charm and pushes back, staring blankly at the rather astonished and indignant-looking Scops owl blinking at Greg. It swivels its head to stare at him instead.

He feels the _snap_ of his shield charm breaking at the same second as he mutters another spell, turning the flask-owl into a pencil case with a curt flick of his wand.

“Boys –” whispers the librarian, stepping closer, then frowns and shakes her head, annoyed by the buzzing of the _Muffliato_ charm.

Greg waves his wand to lift it quickly. “Sorry Madam Blackthorn,” he whispers meekly. “We were trying to keep quiet.” His voice is ripe with suppressed mirth. Mycroft can feel the corner of his own lips twitch sympathetically.

“Yes, well,” says the librarian tartly. “When I see two students in an alcove with a shield charm up, I come to investigate. Even if one of them _is_ the Head Boy.” She fixes Mycroft with an exceptionally piercing glare.

Mycroft smoothes his expression, trying to ignore the fact that Greg has begun to shake with silent laughter. “My apologies, Madam Blackthorn,” he says calmly. “It was a protective measure against my brother Sherlock. Perhaps you know him.”

The librarian’s face darkens expressively. “Indeed I do, Mr Holmes.”

“He is perhaps even more troublesome than usual, during the holidays,” he replies. “I was attempting to shield these books and my coursework from his attentions.”

She eyes him suspiciously, looking at the pencil case for several long moments. Greg shifts in his seat, eyes crinkled and dancing with mirth, hand over his mouth. Mycroft tries to ignore him. He certainly does not notice how Greg’s cheeks dimple as he grins.

“Alright,” says the librarian curtly. “Carry on, boys.” She sweeps away, back towards the desk at the entrance to the library.

_“Muffliato,”_ mutters Mycroft, drawing an irregular boundary around their table. “An _owl?”_ he adds once they are safe, staring disbelievingly at Greg.

Greg, who now has both hands pressed over his mouth, collapses into laughter. “God – sorry – I panicked,” he giggles. “The poor thing looked so unimpressed –” he snorts, “– and so did you, you were both kind of giving me the same look for a couple of seconds there –” he can hardly speak through his laughter.

Mycroft tries hard not to give in to it, but he can feel the corner of his mouth twitching. He points his wand at the pencil case and it transforms back into a flask. Mycroft fights down a bubble of laughter and puts his wand back in his robes.

“’Nother cuppa?” snorts Greg.

“I don’t particularly fancy it,” says Mycroft. “Now it’s been inside an owl.”

This time he can’t help a dry chuckle as Greg collapses again, hiding his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out. “Merlin, I can’t breathe –” he wipes his eyes.

Mycroft smirks, looking fiercely down at his history book and narrowing his eyes. He can feel Greg’s gaze on his face. He closes his eyes to keep control of his amusement.

“Right,” murmurs Greg, voice still shaky with laughter, “we should actually get some work done.”

“Exactly what I had been doing,” says Mycroft aloofly, “until you arrived.”

“Oh yeah, alright Head Boy,” returns Greg. Mycroft glances at him from the corner of his eye, and is surprised by the softness of the other boy’s smile.

He blinks and looks intently at his book, not absorbing a word. He picks up his quill.

“Sure you don’t want a proper pen?” Greg holds out a biro with a lopsided smile.

“I still have the one you gave me,” says Mycroft solemnly. “I am used to the quill.”

“Even a fountain pen,” grumbles Greg. “At least they’re easier to use, even if they’re still a bit ridiculous.”

“I have not used one.”

“You wizards are weird.”

“You are as much a wizard as the rest of us. And quite as weird.” Mycroft feels his eyebrow rise in surprise at his own daring – or perhaps his tone. It was…teasing.

Greg beams, a frankly delighted grin. He doesn’t reply, but flicks the biro onto Mycroft’s notebook, then makes a show of burying himself in his own work.

Mycroft finds it hard to concentrate. His eyes slide to Greg’s hands, to the way his eyelashes fall, dark and striking, against his cheeks as he looks down to his books. Mycroft’s stomach sinks with sudden understanding, and he bites his bottom lip, staring unseeing at the page in front of him.

_Oh._

_Merlin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may seem like Sherlock is being super malevolent in this chapter, but I think in his own way, he *is* trying to look after his older brother. Very much in his own way...


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft puts down his knife and fork and sighs. “Still no sign of Sherlock and John,” he murmurs. “I wonder what they are eating this holiday. Probably living on chocolate frogs.”

Greg grins, finishing his glass of pumpkin juice and running his hand through his silver hair. “Not a chance, Mycroft. John likes his meals. Don’t worry about it. Sherlock’s probably figured out some system to make sure he never meets you at dinner again.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Naturally.”

“Come on.” Greg stands up, bending to pick up his bag. Mycroft looks up at him enquiringly. “Let’s go to Gryffindor Tower. I know I could do with getting warm in front of the fire for a bit.”

Mycroft nods and picks up his own bag.

“Honestly,” grumbles Greg as they make their way through the corridors. “Given that they’ve got _magic_ at their command, you’d think the caretakers and Professors could keep the castle warmer. I swear it’s not this bad during term time. I think they just do it for the wintry atmosphere.”

Mycroft tucks his hands into the pockets of his robes. It _is_ cold. He briefly regrets wearing his waistcoat instead of the woolly jumper.

“Oh Merlin, here we go,” mutters Greg as they walk towards the Fat Lady, who is reading a yellowing paperback novel. She glances up as they approach and slams it closed, tucking it onto her seat under the flowing material of her dress.

“Well well, I see our Slytherin Head Boy is back again,” she says acidly, chins wobbling. “Inviting spies into Gryffindor Tower is _hardly_  what I would expect of the Quidditch Captain, Lestrade.”

“He’s not a spy,” replies Greg, voice as jovial as he can make it. Mycroft remains silent, understanding Greg’s dilemma. He has heard of students almost permanently locked out of their common room due to ongoing feuds with the Fat Lady. “Just here for a drink and a chat, that’s all,” says Greg easily. “Coconut milk,” he adds, quickly.

The portrait starts to swing open and Greg motions Mycroft through, but not before he hears the Fat Lady muttering darkly, “not what _I’d_ call romance, that’s for sure –”

As Greg slams the portrait shut, he rolls his eyes, cheeks tinged with pink. “Really sorry,” he mumbles gruffly. “She’s awful.”

“She can’t hear you?” asks Mycroft.

Greg looks round at the wall behind him. “God. Hope not.” He steps further into the room.

Mycroft can’t help a quirk to the side of his mouth. “She is still less unsettling than the Bloody Baron,” he says quietly.

“Ha.” Greg walks over to one of the sofas and throws off his robes, then pushes his shoes off. He looks younger, somehow – more vulnerable – in just his jeans and jumper. He gravitates closer to the fire, curling up in a plump leather armchair; shivers and stretches. “Oh, that’s better.” He looks round at Mycroft with a soft half-smile. “Get comfy.”

Mycroft is mesmerised by the boy’s dark brown eyes, shining pools in the firelight, leaping with reflected flame.

He sits in the same armchair he had occupied a few days before, wary of taking up too much space.

Greg watches him for a few moments, then puts his feet to the floor. “Drink, yeah?” he pushes up to stand, only half-waiting for an answer.

“Oh –” Mycroft looks up at him, then glances to the fire again. “Yes. Thank you.”

He had expected hot chocolate, but instead Greg returns with several bottles of Butterbeer, one of which he passes to Mycroft. He charms them open with a quick flick of his wand, then drops a soft navy jumper onto the arm of Mycroft’s armchair. “Brought you that as well, in case you want to take your robes off but don’t want to be cold,” he mumbles.

Mycroft stares at the jumper and blinks slightly.

“I mean – not saying you have to –” mutters Greg, curling himself back into the armchair and looking intently at the flames. “But just in case.”

Mycroft clears his throat and puts his Butterbeer down carefully on the edge of the broad stone hearth, then stands rather self-consciously. He shrugs off his robes and lays them deliberately over the back of the sofa, next to Greg’s. With his back to the other boy, he pulls the jumper over his head. Its smell is warm and comforting, strangely familiar. Mycroft’s skin tingles with the knowledge of this unprecedented proximity.

The jumper is a little big for him, but not – he hopes fervently – unflatteringly so. He avoids Greg’s gaze as he sits again, hoping that the flush heating his pale cheeks is explicable by the warmth from the fire. He picks up his Butterbeer and the other boy holds out his own to clink them together. “Cheers,” mumbles Greg.

They drink, and immediately Mycroft feels the warm sense of wellbeing start to radiate through him. Greg gives an appreciative hum, stretching his feet further towards the fire. He reminds Mycroft of a cat, flexing and stretching in the warmth, luxuriating in sensation.

Mycroft catches his breath silently and looks away. He concentrates on the feeling of the Butterbeer spreading through his veins. “Jen is not in Gryffindor Tower this evening?” he asks, feeling stupid even as he says it.

“Nah,” murmurs Greg, eyes half-lidded. “Saw her going into dinner with Ness Abbott from Ravenclaw so I didn’t expect her to be honest. They’re great mates,” he adds with a half-smile. “She probably knows more about how John and Sherlock are doing than we do.”

Mycroft sighs, shifting in his chair, and Greg sends him a smile.

“Stop worrying about them,” he chuckles. “They’ll be having a great time.”

“Yes, that is what concerns me,” says Mycroft drily. “Sherlock’s idea of ‘a great time’ is notoriously dangerous and distressing.”

Greg snorts. “Yeah, well, that’s not for you to deal with.” He takes a swig of Butterbeer. “’S’what Professors are for.”

Mycroft relaxes minutely and takes a sip of Butterbeer. He tips his head to one side; a small capitulation.

“You don’t relax much, do you?” asks Greg, and when Mycroft glances at him, he is surprised by the gentle expression in the other boy’s eyes. Quickly, Mycroft looks back to the fire, allowing the shifting flame-shapes to imprint themselves on his vision.

“Perhaps not,” he returns quietly. He is not sure what else to say, and moves his bottle of beer uneasily between his hands. He clears his throat. “I worry for Sherlock. Particularly when I have left the school and am no longer able to –” he hesitates.

“He’s got John,” says Greg calmly.

Mycroft leans back in his armchair. He can feel the warmth of the Butterbeer relaxing him. He raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Childhood friendships are fickle,” he says starkly.

He can feel Greg’s gaze on his face. The other boy stirs in his chair, tucks one foot up under himself. “I think you’re underestimating them. John needs Sherlock as much as the other way round.”

Mycroft glances to Greg, resisting the urge to look away immediately as he meets the boy’s extraordinary dark eyes. Firelight builds flickering shadows in the contours of his face.

Greg clears his throat. “I mean – I won’t tell you everything ’cos John told me in confidence when he was – he wasn’t doing too well for a bit when he first joined the team. But I don’t think his family’s – his Dad’s a Muggle too but he’s not –” Greg sighs. “John’s older sister’s magical too but she skipped it to live with a relative in America and goes to Ilvermory. That left John with his dad, and I think he’s –” he takes a gulp of Butterbeer. “I got the impression he’s free with his fists as well as his words.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rise, and he stares intently at the hearth.

Greg’s voice is sad. “John’s Mum’s the witch, but I don’t think his Dad lets her do anything. It all sounded pretty fucked up to be honest.” He pauses for a few moments. “I suggested John stay at Hogwarts over Christmas this year. Apparently Harry – his sister, that is – stays at Ilvermory, so last year he ended up there alone with his parents.”

Mycroft nods. “A good suggestion,” he says quietly, flicking his eyes to Greg’s. “I am pleased that Sherlock decided to stay with him.”

Greg smiles. “Yeah. They’re a team. Don’t worry too much about Sherlock. I don’t think their friendship’s going anywhere.” He takes another swig of Butterbeer. “Except if they mess it up by not realising they’ve got a thing for each other, but that can wait a couple of years,” he grins.

“Urgh,” says Mycroft, finishing his bottle. “That will do.”

Greg looks at him sharply, but chuckles and holds out his hand for the bottle. “Another?”

This time, Mycroft charms the bottles open. They clink them together again. Mycroft tries not to notice as their fingers ghost together.

“When did you acquire the Butterbeer?” asks Mycroft, taking a sip.

“Yesterday,” smiles Greg, lounging back in his armchair. “Fancied a break from the library before dinner so I flew down to Hogsmeade and bought some bottles.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “Thought I’d maybe see you at dinner, so.”

Mycroft avoids his gaze, staring into the crackling flames. Still, he can’t seem to stop himself replying. “I did not feel too well yesterday. It was preferable to stay in the dormitory and work.”

Greg sounds immediately concerned. “Oh, well if you weren’t well – I would’ve gone with you to the infirmary or something –”

“It was nothing, really,” mutters Mycroft shamefacedly, regretting the lie.

There’s a pause, and Greg says, “I thought maybe you were feeling a bit shit after that dinner with Sherlock.” He sounds hesitant.

Mycroft sighs. “Perhaps. Partly,” he admits, cheeks hot. “But it is hardly an uncommon occurrence, with my brother.” The dry tone he was trying for falls flat. He takes a mouthful of Butterbeer.

Greg drinks silently for a couple of minutes before he replies. “What Sherlock said – about me not hanging out with you before – unless –”

Mycroft shifts in his armchair, awkwardness crawling under his skin like ants. “Greg –” he says abruptly.

“He wasn’t – it wasn’t fair,” mumbles Greg.

Mycroft sits straighter in his chair, wishing devoutly he could bring this conversation to an end.

“I’ve tried to –” Greg clears his throat. “Y’know, get to know you before in class and stuff. But you didn’t seem keen so I didn’t want to push it. Be annoying. But I’m not just being your mate ’cos it’s Christmas,” he finishes, gruffly. “So, yeah.” He gulps Butterbeer again. Mycroft, heart hammering, tries not to look at his lips closing around the bottle.

“Thank you,” he says, primly.

“Um. You can relax again,” chuckles Greg, eyes crinkled and warm. “I’ve stopped talking about it.” He swigs his drink. “Take your shoes off,” he twinkles.

Hesitatingly, Mycroft pushes off his shoes and stretches his feet towards the fire. It feels wonderful. He suppresses a sigh of contentment.

“Take your tie off,” adds Greg, and Mycroft is ashamed of the way his stomach flips at the words. Greg’s voice is warm and dark, and it takes everything Mycroft has to remain impassive. Somewhat deliberately, he places his almost-empty Butterbeer bottle on the hearthstone and loosens his tie and the top button of his shirt. Greg’s voice is full of laughter. “That’ll do, I s’pose,” he says.

Mycroft can’t help a small huff of amusement in return. He feels cosy, and free, and sleepy. He drains his bottle of Butterbeer.

Greg does the same and levitates the last couple of bottles to them, popping the caps in mid-air. Mycroft shoots him a look that says _show-off_ and Greg grins cheekily. They clink and both say “Cheers” at the same time.

“Mmm,” hums Greg, happily. “I could fall asleep right here. So comfy.” He flexes his toes in the heat. “’S’going to be hell getting up at half six tomorrow.”

“Half-past six?” asks Mycroft. “Quidditch practice?” he hazards.

“Nah.” Greg leans his head on his hand. His hair flares bright as a log shifts position and the flames leap and crackle. “’M’meeting my great-aunt in town tomorrow.”

“Ah,” says Mycroft. “I had not realised that was tomorrow.”

Greg sips his Butterbeer and watches Mycroft with dark eyes. “Y’know,” he says casually, “you could come with me if you wanted? If you fancied a day in town I mean.”

Mycroft automatically shakes his head. “Oh – no, that’s alright –”

“I don’t mean to meet my great-aunt or anything,” adds Greg quickly. “I just mean – might be good to have a day out. I’ll see Mae but she won’t want to get home too late. Then we could hang around in Diagon Alley for a bit, visit a couple of shops or whatever.”

Mycroft has to admit that he is tempted; warm and content, with Butterbeer infusing his thoughts, the necessity to spend every moment in the library seems less pressing. He could take a leisurely stroll around the several bookshops on the Alley, and pick up some extra parchment and ink in readiness for the exam season. He could even get some of the extra ingredients he would need for his Draught of Living Death experiments, although of course the restricted ones would still have to be requested directly from Professor Delane. He surprises himself with a “very well.”

Greg’s smile is bright and unrestrained. Mycroft swallows a gulp of Butterbeer rather quickly. “Great,” says the Gryffindor happily. “Six-thirty for you too, then,” he teases.

“Urgh,” groans Mycroft. “What time is it now?”

Greg checks his watch. “Only quarter past ten.” He sips his Butterbeer. “You must’ve got an early night last night?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft. He glances over to Greg questioningly, before looking back to the fire. “Relatively early. I had got rather cold in the dormitory.”

“Yeah.” Greg bites his lip. “I sent my owl over to your dorm to see if you were about, but he came back with the note so I figured you must be asleep.” His voice is rather diffident. “Thought you might want to share some Butterbeers, since I hadn’t seen you all day.”

Mycroft’s brain seems to be tripping over itself. He fiddles absently with the hem of Greg’s jumper. “Thank you.” It’s all he can think of to say.

“Didn’t you come out of Slytherin Dungeon at all yesterday, then?” asks Greg, shifting in his chair and looking perceptively at Mycroft.

Mycroft clears his throat. “No.”

“Weren’t you starving?” asks Greg, aghast. He bites his bottom lip, but doesn’t seem to be able to stop himself from speaking. “’Cos you know all that crap Sherlock was spouting is – is _utter_ shite, don’t you?” He sits up and folds his legs onto the armchair. His fingers pick restlessly at the label on the Butterbeer bottle. “You’re really tall and skinny and you have to eat,” he adds in a rush.

Mycroft flushes and stares down at the bottle clutched between his own long fingers. His breath comes a little too fast and he knows that if he were not so warm and comfortable, he might feel the sting of half-ashamed tears behind his eyes. He looks away further, to the firelight flickering on the dark stone wall.

There is a silence. Eventually, Mycroft breaks it. “What time are you meeting your great-aunt tomorrow?”

“Ten,” says Greg. “I promised her I wouldn’t Apparate all that way, so I was planning to walk down to the village and use the Broomsticks’ fireplace for the Floo.” He smiles. “She’s still a bit worried about me Apparating. I think she thinks I’m about twelve, not eighteen.”

Mycroft gives a half-smile. Certainly not something he can imagine his parents being concerned about. “Very well. What time do you want to meet?”

“I thought – meet for breakfast about half-seven, start walking down about eight? Give us time to find each other again if one of us ends up somewhere random.” He rolls his eyes.

Mycroft nods and stifles a yawn. “Certainly a danger, with Floo powder,” he murmurs.

“Tired?” asks Greg, through a yawn of his own.

“I must admit that I am.”

“Me too.” Greg finishes his third Butterbeer and puts it next to his chair. “Should probably turn in.” He looks at Mycroft. “You can stay here, if you want. I mean – loads of space in the seventh-year dorm. I’m the only one here. So.” He turns his gaze abruptly into the fire.

“Oh – no,” returns Mycroft. His thoughts flash to the idea of an awkward morning and the prospect of sharing a bathroom with Greg. He stands up, and starts to take off the jumper. “I should return to Slytherin.”

Greg stands up too, and puts his hand on Mycroft’s arm. “’S’alright, no need to worry about the jumper,” he yawns. “It’ll be freezing out there. Keep it until tomorrow.” He passes Mycroft his robes, and watches as he puts them on. “Want me to walk you back?” he adds, as Mycroft turns away.

“Thank you, but I shall be fine,” says Mycroft drily.

“Oh – no, yeah, I didn’t mean –” Greg sounds flustered, and follows Mycroft to the portrait hole. “Thanks for coming, anyway,” he says, awkwardly.

“Thank you for the Butterbeer.”

There’s a pause. Greg runs a hand through his hair. “See you tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some (rusty, rubbish) French in this chapter. I've put a translation in the notes at the end.

In the end, Mycroft wakes at half past five. The Butterbeer has not left him with any negative effects that he can detect, unlike the champagne and brandy he had consumed at one of his parents’ parties the previous Christmas. He had not been badly drunk, but still – the next morning had not been exactly enjoyable. He has to admit that the prospect of Floo powder isn’t terribly appealing at the best of times. With a hangover it would be unbearable.

Blinking at himself in the bathroom mirror, he sees all too easily the faults he has always been able to find. He dresses carefully, a three-piece suit beneath his robes. As he picks out his suit, he carefully folds the soft navy jumper that Greg had lent him, leaving it neatly on top of his trunk.

He manages an hour of work on his Potions essay, and has to rush when he realises it’s nearly half past seven, making sure he has enough spending money for Diagon Alley, as well as his wand, scarf and gloves.

Greg’s hanging around in the doorway to the Great Hall when Mycroft walks down the stairs. He grins and half-waves. “Alright?”

Mycroft nods, flicking his eyes to Greg’s for a moment as they walk into the hall. “Slytherin, this morning?” he asks. There are no other students having breakfast at this hour.

“Why not,” assents Greg, and they take a seat. He picks up the teapot and makes to pour a cup for Mycroft, but Mycroft clears his throat.

“Er –” he hesitates, awkwardly. “Actually, I might – have breakfast once we arrive in Diagon Alley.”

Greg puts the teapot down. “Oh?”

“Well – I tend not to enjoy trips through the Floo network,” says Mycroft rather shamefacedly. “They leave me somewhat nauseous.”

“Oh, crap – sorry, Mycroft,” says Greg repentantly. “You didn’t need to come down to breakfast.”

Mycroft looks fixedly at the teapot. “No,” he murmurs. “It is not a problem.”

Greg watches him for a few moments. “I’ll just have a cup of coffee here,” he says warmly. “And we could get going then, both have breakfast when we get there.”

“There is no need –”

“Shut up Mycroft,” says the other boy, pouring a cup of coffee. “It’s decided.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and stares at the other boy with as much coldness as he can muster. Greg snorts a laugh into his coffee.

“Don’t give me the eyebrow.”

Mycroft sighs and rolls his eyes. “Will the Three Broomsticks be open at this hour?”

“Yeah, no worries. Madam Rosmerta opens pretty early for breakfasts and a few people use the fireplace for work and stuff I think.” Greg takes a gulp of coffee. “You could’ve just told me you don’t like Floo powder y’know. We can still Apparate if you want.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I have never undertaken such a long trip by Apparition either. I understand your great-aunt’s concern.” The idea of a splinching – especially involving Greg – was unthinkable.

Greg looks at him dubiously over the rim of his coffee mug. “Alright, Floo powder it is. Will you be okay coming back though?”

“I shall eat breakfast, then probably not another meal until we return.”

Greg gives him a sympathetic grin. “We’d better make it back for dinner then.” He finishes his coffee and picks up his backpack, pulling out scarf and gloves. “Let’s go.”

No fresh snow has fallen for a couple of days, so the courtyard is covered in irregular lines of footprints. Mycroft takes pleasure in finding snow that he can sink a new footprint into. Greg notices what he is doing and smiles at him. Mycroft, embarrassed, looks quickly away.

They walk fairly fast, spurred on by the biting cold. “I was kind of hoping it might be planning to thaw,” says Greg. “Haven’t had a chance to do any practice with John yet.”

Mycroft tucks his scarf more closely around his face. “I understand there will not be a thaw until after Christmas.”

“Christmas Eve eve today,” grins Greg. “As my Dad always says. My sister’ll be making mince pies to leave out for Father Christmas tomorrow night.”

Mycroft looks at him enquiringly.

“Oh – another Muggle thing,” says Greg. “When Father Christmas comes, it’s polite to leave him a mince pie and some brandy – or hot milk – and some carrots for the reindeer.”

“Reindeer.”

“Oh come on, you must know about Father Christmas –”

“Well, I have seen depictions, of course –”

“There you go then. His sleigh’s pulled by reindeer, because he’s from the North Pole.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Muggles are strange.”

“Exactly the same as wizards celebrating a festival they don’t believe in.”

Mycroft smiles behind his scarf. “That is true.”

It is still rather dark, only a thin line of grey-pink light showing over the horizon. The roofs of Hogsmeade below them are stark shapes of drifted white and navy shadow. The air is clean and bitter. The snow lends an oddly intimate hush to the landscape.

“Prob’ly should’ve flown down really,” muses Greg. “But I figured we’d have to leave the brooms at the pub all day, or carry them around, and I’m not bloody Transfiguring the Firebolt again, so…”

Mycroft can hear the gentle tease in Greg’s tone. He shoots a glance at him, a half-smile hidden behind his scarf. “The Firebolt is in perfect order.”

“Don’t tempt Fate.”

They reach the end of the High Street, which is splashed with warm pools of light from windows and streetlamps. The Three Broomsticks is clearly open, multicoloured fairy lights strung in the windows. Greg holds the door open and motions him inside.

“Morning lads,” says Madam Rosmerta. “You’re up early.”

“Just using your fireplace, I’m afraid,” says Greg easily. “If that’s okay?”

“No problem boys, no problem,” she smiles. “Help yourselves.”

Greg puts his backpack down on a nearby table and packs away his gloves and scarf. He looks at Mycroft and holds out a hand. “Want to put your stuff in here too? Easier to use the Floo without stuff flapping around.”

Slowly, Mycroft unwraps his scarf and draws off his gloves. “Thank you,” he murmurs, handing them over. He is not looking forward to the inevitable nausea. Greg packs away his things and zips up the backpack.

“Shall we head for Flourish and Blotts, on the Floo? We could have breakfast at Rosa Lee’s and it’s a bit of a walk between the two, so you can get some air.”

Mycroft nods resignedly. “That sounds sensible.”

“Come on then.” Greg steps over to the fireplace, pulling his backpack on. “I’ll go first.” He takes a handful of powder. “Alright?”

Mycroft gives a minuscule quirk of his lips. “Ready.”

Greg tosses the powder into the fire, which leaps up emerald. “Flourish and Blotts, Diagon Alley,” he says clearly as he steps in – and is gone.

Mycroft sighs and takes a generous handful of the powder. He waits for the fire to turn yellow again before throwing it in. He repeats Greg’s words and steps into the flames.

The choking, ashy inability to breathe is instant. He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on anything – counting to twenty, elf coups, sipping Butterbeer in front of the Gryffindor fire. The air around him is dry and thin. Nausea is building in the pit of his stomach already.

He swallows hard as the network spits him out, stumbling from the fireplace in Flourish and Blotts. His eyes are still closed as strong arms catch him, steadying him with a grip on his upper arms, guiding him gently to lean against a wall.

Mycroft opens his eyes to see Greg, brown eyes wide and close, still holding him by the arms. His heart is racing, and he swallows hard again, fighting the nausea. His legs feel wobbly, and he is horribly warm. “Outside,” he mumbles, trying to move his lips as little as possible.

“Yeah, good idea,” says Greg. Despite how sick he feels, Mycroft can’t help noticing the other boy’s hand on his shoulderblade all the way outside.

On Diagon Alley, he leans against the window of Flourish and Blotts. There are hardly any other wizards and witches on the street yet, even though it is so close to Christmas. Greg leans next to him, and their upper arms touch, just a little. Mycroft takes several deep breaths, and feels the nausea recede somewhat in the cold morning air.

“Bit better?”

“A little,” says Mycroft thinly. “Perhaps we could walk.”

Greg pushes off the window, and they amble slowly down the street. “You don’t need your scarf or anything?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Too warm.”

“I’ll carry your robes if you want.”

Mycroft glances at Greg out of the corner of his eye. His stomach flips, in a much better way than it has done for the past few minutes. Greg is biting his lip, clearly concerned.

“It is fine, thank you Greg.” Mycroft is surprised by the gentleness in his own voice.

“You went really bloody green, there,” says Greg, jokingly. He glances at Mycroft. “I mean I know you’re pale as a vampire anyway, but still – bit much if you ask me.” He gently bumps Mycroft’s shoulder with his own.

“It is hardly my fault,” says Mycroft loftily. “The method of travel is appalling.”

“Sodding precious aristocrats,” grumbles Greg with a facetious grin. “Don’t like to travel like the plebs.”

Mycroft gives him a hard stare, but can’t help a small smile. “Apparently the plebs are rather uppity today.”

“Half-breeds,” smiles Greg. “Can never tell when they’re going to be revolting. Ready for some breakfast?”

They are approaching the sign for Rosa Lee’s Teabag, a cosy coffee shop which looks warm and inviting. Mycroft swallows again, trying to push down the lingering nausea. “Perhaps if we could walk up to the Leaky Cauldron and back,” he says, cautiously.

“Ah, no worries,” says Greg, sympathetically. “We’ll be able to look in Quality Quidditch’s window on the way,” he adds.

In the end, they spend a few minutes looking at the wares on display in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, Greg bemoaning the Hogwarts professors’ unwillingness to replace all the Quidditch balls at school with the latest models, which are supposed to be rather lighter and easier to work with.

Mycroft eyes the broomsticks, curious to see how much might have been spent on the expensive ‘gift’ to his father. Greg points to the highest-range Firebolt they have on display. “That’s the model before yours,” he says. “And that one costs over three thousand. Pretty sure yours must be more.”

Mycroft grimaces. “For goodness’ sake.”

Greg chuckles. “It’s a good broom.”

“I was commenting on my father’s willingness to accept it,” sighs Mycroft, “not on the terribly overinflated price in general.”

Greg snorts. “Don’t say anything like that when we go in there later.”

“I had not realised we planned to visit the shop later.”

“Yeah, we plan to.”

“You could leave me in the secondhand bookshop instead, in order to avoid ‘aristocratic’ scoffing.”

“You can visit all your bookshops while I’m with Aunt Mae,” grins Greg. They are approaching the Leaky Cauldron’s entrance wall at the end of the Alley. “Shall we head back?”

“Yes. I am in need of a cup of tea.”

Mycroft can feel Greg give him a long look. “You aren’t too green any more.”

“Just the usual amount of green?”

“Yeah.” Greg giggles as Mycroft shoves him with his shoulder. “Don’t worry, it goes with your hair.” He only giggles harder when Mycroft glowers at him. “You’re not green at all now. Promise.”

Mycroft can feel his cheeks heat a little, and looks away to the Owl Emporium, which is just opening its doors. “Perhaps I should buy some treats for my owl today.” He peers into the window as they pass. “I wanted a cat, but had to admit that an owl would be of much more use.”

“Cat-lover?” asks Greg.

“Yes. They are so gloriously selfish,” muses Mycroft.

“Trust a Slytherin,” grins Greg. “What’s your owl called?”

Mycroft flushes and pushes his hands into the pockets of his robes.

“Lancelot.”

Greg snorts. “Big fan of Arthurian literature aged eleven, were you?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft. He can feel the damned flush spreading over his face. “At least my owl’s not called Sam.”

“What’s wrong with Sam?” Greg asks, mock-indignantly.

“It is not particularly magical, is it?”

“Not posh enough, you mean,” chuckles Greg. “Bloody Slytherin.” He smiles and holds the door of Rosa Lee’s open for Mycroft. “After you.”

“Take a table, gents,” smiles the proprietress. “Be over in a minute.”

It’s warm in the tearoom, and Greg shrugs off his robes, hanging them on the back of his chair. He’s wearing the faded jeans underneath, and a grey hoodie.

Mycroft takes off his robes, and then his suit jacket, still feeling the warmth after the Floo network. He sits up straight, examining the menu. The proprietress bustles over. “What can I get you?”

Greg smiles at her. “Coffee for me, tea for him,” he says. “Mycroft?”

“Poached eggs on toast, please.”

She nods and turns her attention to Greg. “And you love?”

“Scrambled eggs, toast, sausages and tomatoes, please.”

“Back in a minute with your drinks.”

Greg leans back in his chair. Mycroft is straightening the cutlery at his place, long fingers nervously occupied.

“What you going to get up to while I see Aunt Mae?” asks Greg, lazily.

“Bookshops,” says Mycroft, acidly. “Apparently.” He flicks a small smile at Greg.

“Ah yeah, ’course.” He smiles. “Anything on your list?”

“I may find another present for Sherlock.”

Greg nods. “I was wondering if I ought to get something little for John. Some sweets or something. Not sure how much he’s going to get, so.” He shrugs. ’Spect Aunt Mae and I’ll have lunch, then I’ll come and find you.” He sighs. “This is when mobile phones are useful. If we had mobiles, I could just drop you a text once I was done, and you could let me know where you were. ’Stead I have to guess a time so we don’t miss each other.”

“What time will you have finished lunch?”

“Hard to know for sure, but I reckon two’s safe. Where should I find you at two?”

“Sugarplum’s, perhaps, if you wish to buy a present for John.”

“Sounds good.”

Rosa returns, carrying a tray of drinks, and deposits the teapot, cup and saucer in front of Mycroft, and a mug of coffee in front of Greg, with a jug of milk between them. “Just get your food,” she murmurs as she turns away. They pour their respective drinks in silence, and then she’s back, placing their breakfasts in front of them. “Okay,” she says with satisfaction, before bustling away.

Greg picks up his cutlery eagerly, while Mycroft takes his first sip of tea. He can’t help sighing contentedly.

“Good tea?”

“Delicious.”

Greg takes a huge mouthful of toast, egg and sausage and chews happily. Mycroft starts, rather circumspectly, on the toast first, to see how his stomach takes to it.

“So at the end of term,” says Greg as he picks up his coffee cup, “Alannah Deverill was telling me you and the prefects have been discussing a Summer Ball after the exams.”

Mycroft grimaces. “Indeed. Several of the prefects are rather keen on the idea.”

“And you aren’t?” asks Greg innocently.

“I suspect you know I am not.”

“Yeah, didn’t sound like you to be honest,” smirks Greg.

“You brought it up because you wish to persuade me it would be a good idea,” says Mycroft, hazarding a bit of poached egg.

Greg grins. “Oh go on, it’ll be fun.”

“You are aware I am against fun.”

Greg snorts into his coffee. “Shut up you idiot,” he giggles. “You are not. Would it be for everyone?”

“Just the fifth, sixth and seventh years, as proposed by the prefects. To be held the evening after the last scheduled examination.”

“And d’you reckon the professors would go for it? And McGonagall?”

Mycroft gives a half-shrug. “I expect we could persuade them, with a decently thought-out proposal.”

“Good for morale after the exams.”

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. “Quite,” he says, acidly. Greg laughs at him.

“We’d all be getting dressed up, then?”

Mycroft sighs and nods.

“You’d have to point me in the direction of your tailor,” says Greg, admiringly.

Mycroft outright blushes, staring into his cup of tea. His parents had bought him this suit. The elderly tailor at Twilfitt and Tatting was a pureblood and former Death Eater, and proud of it. “Mmm,” he says non-committally.

“I’m not that badly off,” says Greg amusedly, mistaking his reluctance. “I work every summer. Got a few quid put by.”

Mycroft flicks his gaze to Greg’s. “Where do you work?”

“Oh, nowhere magical,” says Greg. “Garden centre near my Dad’s house. Sometimes I’m on the till or in the café but mostly it’s carting stuff around, re-potting plants, watering the greenhouses – you know.”

Mycroft looks quickly away to a framed newspaper clipping on the wall, trying to shake the rather interesting mental image he’s managed to conjure up of a shirtless Greg with a garden hose. As a thirteen-year-old he had had a violent crush on his parents’ gardener’s nephew, who helped out during the summer. He takes an inelegant swig of tea to help his suddenly dry throat. “Right,” he croaks, turning his attention back to his plate and trying hard not to let his cheeks turn red.

“I know it’d be a lot of organisation,” says Greg, “but a ball’d be good. I could help out if you wanted.”

“You will have Quidditch as well as your N.E.W.T.s to concern yourself with,” says Mycroft sternly. “If it is really going to happen, I shall request the sixth-year prefects to take the organisational lead, since they do not face important exams at the end of the year.”

Greg beams at him. “You’ll ask the professors then?”

Mycroft looks at him thoughtfully. “Yes.”

“Brilliant.” Greg finishes his last mouthful and puts his knife and fork together. “You realise the only thing we’re going to hear about for months is who’s going with who.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes sarcastically. “Wonderful.” His heart sinks.

Greg gives a lopsided smile.

“There is no guarantee the professors and Headmistress will agree,” says Mycroft somewhat more hopefully. He checks his watch. “Where are you meeting your great-aunt? It is almost ten.”

Greg checks his own watch quickly and turns around in his chair to start pulling on his robes. “She’ll be coming in through the Leaky Cauldron,” he says hurriedly, looking over at the till. “If I can just get the bill –”

“I will pay the bill this time,” says Mycroft. “It will take me a little longer to finish my tea.”

“You sure?” asks Greg. “I can leave you some –”

“Really.”

“Alright. Well I’ll get you back later for something.” He stands up and puts his backpack on his chair. “Oh, hang on –” he rifles in his bag and drops scarf and gloves into Mycroft’s lap. “Can’t let my great-aunt see me with this Slytherin paraphernalia,” he grins, squeezing Mycroft’s shoulder as he starts for the door. “See you at two!”

The door tinkles shut behind him, and Rosa comes over to collect their plates. “He stick you with the bill did he, dear?” she smiles.

Mycroft gives her a rather stiff smile in return. “Could I –” he motions awkwardly to the teapot.

“Refill, dear? No problem. And a copy of the Prophet, perhaps, since you’re here on your own now?”

“Thank you,” he says shyly.

She returns in a couple of minutes with a full teapot, some more milk, and the newspaper. “You settle in for a bit,” she says kindly, before hurrying back to the till to serve a wizard and his young daughter. Mycroft starts in on a long editorial about the giant situation in Spain.

He makes his way steadily through both the newspaper and the tea, fetching up eventually at the crossword. Only once an hour has gone by does his bladder alert him that it’s time to think about moving. He pays the bill and uses the loo, then pulls on his jacket, robes, scarf and gloves.

He spends a very pleasant couple of hours browsing first Flourish and Blotts, and then the secondhand bookshop, where he picks up a slim, battered tome which he thinks will be helpful for the finishing touches to his Transfiguration essay. It’s as he stands just inside the front window of the secondhand bookshop, flicking through an ancient bestiary that he’s pretty sure the Hogwarts library must already own, that he sees the window of the sweetshop opposite. In one corner of the display is a large, overstuffed red stocking, overflowing with sweets.

Rather furtively, Mycroft makes his way into the shop. He finds a Christmas display and – yes, there are some small netting bags of chocolate Galleons and Sickles. He picks up a couple of them and pays quickly, glancing out of the front window. He buries them in the deep pockets of his robe as he leaves the shop. He will be able to take a clementine from the fresh fruit supplied with every meal in the Great Hall, but he’s not sure about the walnut – if nothing else, perhaps the house elves will give him one from the kitchen. Is it supposed to be a whole walnut, or shelled? Why a sock? A strange tradition, but still.

He makes a quick visit to Slug and Jiggers to pick up the necessary ingredients for a number of Potions experiments, adding an extra set of basic ingredients as an additional present for Sherlock. It includes a few ingredients that the second-years are not provided with as a matter of course, although Mycroft is sure that Sherlock will already have got hold of them by one means or another. Still, perhaps his brother will appreciate it, even if he won’t show it.

It is twenty to two, and Mycroft dawdles at the window of the Magical Menagerie, watching some rats cooperate to build a bridge. Suddenly, he hears an all-too familiar voice: the commanding tones of Nemesis Carrow, his mother’s – well, ‘friend’ might be overstating it, but confidante, at least. She is lecturing her companion on something, and Mycroft is all too aware that she will not hesitate to speak to him if she sees him. She will of course also report everything he says to his parents. As unobtrusively as possible, he melts into the petshop.

“Afternoon, Sir,” murmurs the old man behind the counter. He is excessively tall and thin, and has a wild white beard. He has an ancient magnifying glass squinted into one eye, and is peering down at an extremely small Niffler, squirming where he has it pinned against the counter. “Take a look around.” He gestures vaguely to the rest of the shop with his other hand, and turns back to the Niffler. “Bloody little bugger’s taken my till key,” he mutters, as if to himself.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and wanders off into the area of the shop entirely composed of cages. He comes to a halt at a low, open pen where a female Siamese cat is lazily keeping a brood of four kittens in order with bats of the paw and lashes of the tongue. Mycroft glances behind him, but the owner is occupied and there’s no-one else in the shop. He can’t help himself. He kneels down and holds out his hand to the mother, allowing her to sniff his fingers. After a few moments she taps his index finger delicately with her nose and stretches lazily. He strokes her gently under the chin, and she starts to purr. The kittens crowd around, intrigued by this new development. One of them tackles his wrist with tiny paws and teeth, and gets biffed on the nose by its mother.

In a few more minutes she is purring like a motor and allowing him to gently stroke her side. Three of the kittens are curled up around her, enjoying her warmth, but the cheeky one who had tackled him climbs onto its mother and claws its way up Mycroft’s sleeve. He smiles and, looking to the mother for permission, picks it up with his other hand, cradling it against him. He begins gently stroking the kitten’s ears, but it is more interested in chasing his fingers than in being petted.

In the background, he can hear a strident voice at the front of the shop.

_“Ah, un moment, j’ai besoin de –”_

_“On n’a pas le temps de s’arrêter, Tante Mae. Je retrouve Mycroft à quatorze heures.”_

_“Oui, oui, je sais, et je veux voir ton copain, Grégoire.”_

_“Il n'est pas mon copain, Tante Mae, je t'ai dit –”_

_“Bon, bah, mais lui, c'est la seule chose dont tu as parlé pendant le dejeuner.”_

The shop owner clears his throat. “Madam. Can I help you?”

“Yes. I need some new talon clippers.”

“We have a number of models available, Madam, if I could just show you…”

Mycroft freezes, then lets out a yelp as the kitten manages to dig its tiny spiky claws into his finger.

“Mycroft?” Greg’s cheeks are flushed. “Er –” He clears his throat. “I was just coming to meet you.”

Mycroft stares up at the other boy, eyes wide. “Um – yes,” he says, and glances down at the kitten he’s still cradling. It’s playing with his sleeve. Quickly, he puts it back in the pen next to its mother, and climbs back to his feet. He has no idea what to say. He brushes a few stray cat hairs off his robes.

_“Eh bien, il est très grand,”_  says Great-Aunt Mae, appearing behind Greg and looking at Mycroft head to toe.

Greg closes his eyes and re-opens them. “Mycroft – this is Aunt Mae,” he says hurriedly. “Aunt Mae – Mycroft. Did you get the talon clippers?” he stares pointedly at his great-aunt.

“I did, thank you _Grégoire,”_  she says sweetly. She has only the very faintest trace of a French accent. She comes up just to Greg’s shoulder, and has long ash-silver hair, which she wears in a complicated plaited bun on top of her head. Her eyes are strikingly blue.

Mycroft feels as though he is towering over her. He holds out his hand. “It is very nice to meet you, Mrs –” he hesitates, feeling a fool for not having asked Greg in advance what her surname is.

“Just call me Mae, dear,” she says, eyes twinkling. “Everyone does. Now, _Grégoire,_  I cannot tempt you and your charming friend to take tea with me, before I go home?”

“You can’t,” says Greg firmly, steering her towards the door. “Mycroft gets sick with the Floo travel, so he’s not eating until we get back to school.”

Outside the shop, she groans and pats Mycroft comfortingly on the arm. “Oh my dear, but I do sympathise. A barbarous way to travel.” She turns to Greg. “Very well, I am going to go and get the tube home. I shall see you in the next holiday, yes?”

“Of course. You with Emma and Dave and the kids for Christmas?”

“Indeed. So I shall give them your love. Have a good Christmas, my _Grégoire.”_ She pulls him into a warm hug, which he returns with only a slight grimace at Mycroft. “And to you my dear,” she says, patting Mycroft on the arm again. “Goodbye. Make sure that he has an enjoyable Christmas.” Mycroft could swear that she tips him a wink as she turns away.

They watch her walking away down the Alley, and Greg shakes his head. “Er – I’m really sorry about that,” he mutters. “Didn’t think we’d run into you.”

Mycroft clears his throat. “It was very nice to meet her,” he says quietly. There is an awkward pause.

“Sugarplum’s?” asks Greg, abruptly.

“Certainly,” returns Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “One moment, I just need to –”  
> “We don't have time to stop, Aunt Mae. I'm meeting Mycroft at two o'clock.”  
> “Yes, yes, I know, and I want to meet your boyfriend, Gregory.”  
> “I told you Aunt Mae, he's not my boyfriend –”  
> “Well, he's the only thing you spoke about at lunch.”  
> *  
> "Hmm, he's very tall."
> 
> (I'm sorry about my French. Please correct it if you are able!)


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft stumbles from the Three Broomsticks’ fireplace to find Greg’s strong arms steadying him again. His stomach is lurching, and he makes for the door on shaky legs. Sitting on the snowy window ledge, he leans his head against the windowframe, taking desperate pulls of air. Hot nauseous shivers run under his skin, even in the biting cold.

Greg stands next to him, hand on his shoulder. His thumb moves slowly in a soothing circle. He doesn’t ask questions, for which Mycroft is profoundly grateful. He doesn’t trust himself to speak just now.

He closes his eyes and concentrates on the cold, clean air. His hands are shaking slightly, clenched into fists as he fights the shivery waves of nausea.

All his shopping (including the chocolate money, which he hid in the bag from the apothecary) is in Greg’s backpack. He is glad not to have to worry about extra things to hold just now.

Greg squeezes his shoulder. “Just going to get some bottles of Butterbeer from Madam Rosmerta. Guess we might want some over Christmas. You just stay here and – breathe deeply, okay?”

Mycroft doesn’t want to risk a nod. He gives a tiny curl to the edge of his lips as acknowledgement, and Greg opens the door to the warm, bright pub.

“He doing alright?” Mycroft hears Madam Rosmerta ask.

“Yeah, he’ll be fine in a minute,” Greg replies as he shuts the door. Mycroft takes another deep breath, alone under the rapidly-darkening sky. It’s only about four o’clock but night is coming fast. The walk back up to the castle will be a dark one.

Greg opens the door and leans out. “Madam Rosmerta’s got a couple of brooms we could borrow, if you want to get up to the castle faster?” he says enquiringly.

_“Urgh,”_ is Mycroft’s only reply.

Greg chuckles sympathetically and turns around to bid goodbye to Madam Rosmerta. “I think that’s a no,” he laughs. “But thanks so much anyway.”

Greg’s carrying a heavy bag full of Butterbeer. He props his backpack on the window ledge and rearranges things so he can pack the heavy bottles into it. Mycroft holds out a hand for his bag of purchases, scarf and gloves, but Greg shakes his head and mutters, “no need.”

“We should start walking,” grits out Mycroft between clenched teeth. “Nearly dark.”

“You alright for it?”

“Yes,” murmurs Mycroft. “Okay to walk.” His stomach rolls miserably and he grimaces, keeping his eyes fixed on the snowy path ahead.

Even carrying the heavy backpack, Greg sets a quicker pace than Mycroft’s shivery knees will allow for. Greg seems to realise it, and slows to accommodate him. “How’re you feeling?” he asks.

“Regretting breakfast,” mutters Mycroft, wryly.

“Merlin. I knew people weren’t keen on Floo travel, but I didn’t know it could be that bad.”

Mycroft doesn’t answer. At last, the freezing air is allowing him to take breaths unaccompanied by the disgusting feeling that he might be sick at any moment. The castle is looming ahead and above them, golden points of light shining from its huge imposing shadow. The sky is rapidly-blackening navy, stars clear and cold.

“Not going to snow again,” says Greg, noting where he is looking. “Bet it’s a good view from the Astronomy Tower tonight.”

Mycroft half-smiles. He shivers slightly. “Might I trouble you for my gloves and scarf?”

Greg passes them over from the bag he’s carrying in one hand. He gives Mycroft an encouraging smile.

“Thanks,” murmurs Mycroft, pulling on the gloves and arranging his scarf around his face. “I can take my bag now.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” says Greg, looking away. “I need to remember to give you those sherbet lemons back, by the way, this evening. They’re still in my trunk.”

“Ah, yes,” says Mycroft absently. “I need to work out how to send Sherlock his present.”

“Surely you’ll just see him at lunch on Christmas?” asks Greg.

“Who can tell?” says Mycroft, drily. “Perhaps not.”

Greg huffs a laugh. “I saw McGonagall at lunch the other day, and from what she said it sounds like Christmas lunch is pretty mandatory. Got the impression she’ll go and get Sherlock and John herself, if they don’t turn up.”

Mycroft purses his lips behind his scarf. “Even so, Sherlock may prefer to receive the present anonymously by owl.”

“Nah, give it to him in person,” says Greg easily. “I’ll be giving John his.” In the end, Greg had purchased a selection box of sweets that should keep John’s sweet tooth satisfied for some time.

As they cross the castle courtyard, Greg hoists up his backpack a little. “Alright with you if we go up to Gryffindor so I can drop all this stuff off?”

“Of course,” replies Mycroft. “I am already anticipating the Fat Lady’s comments.”

“Oh, God,” mutters Greg. “She’s dreadful. I’m sorry. You know the reason John’s had to go to Ravenclaw’s that Sherlock had a major falling out with her, right?” He chuckles when he sees Mycroft’s enquiring look of resignation. “Ha. Sherlock got sick of her and started bribing all the background magical creatures from other paintings to get in the portrait with her. Mind you, I’ve got no bloody idea what he bribed them _with,_ ’cause John won’t tell me. But apparently it was the background centaurs that annoyed her so much in the end she snapped and had an enormous meltdown. They told her who it was that’d done it, and now Sherlock’s on a lifetime ban from Gryffindor Tower.”

Mycroft sighs, heavily, and looks away to hide a half-smile.

Greg snorts. “She even described Sherlock to all the other portraits who sometimes look after the painting when she’s off somewhere. Don’t think he’s managed to get in since.”

Indeed, when they reach the portrait hole, it is Violet who greets them. “Sorry lads,” she giggles, rather tipsily. “She’s felt a call, so I’m ’ere.”

Mycroft eyes a large, bejewelled goblet next to her suspiciously.

“Ooo, ’ere,” says Violet, leaning forward. “You’re the Slytherin ’ead Boy! Well well well. She _will_ be interested to hear that _you’re_ back again. Got a regular _thing_  going on this ’oliday, ’aven’t you, boys?”

_“Coconut milk,”_ coughs Greg, hurriedly.

Mycroft scrambles through the portrait hole with less than his usual elegance. He avoids Greg’s eyes once they’re inside.

“I’ll go and put these in my trunk,” mumbles Greg. “Come on, I’ll grab those sherbet lemons while we’re there.”

Mycroft nods, and they exchange stilted remarks about how cold it is as they climb the stairs to the seventh-year dormitory.

Up in the dorm, Greg unpacks his backpack and stashes the Butterbeer in his trunk, then digs the sherbet lemons out too; he passes them and the apothecary bag over to Mycroft.

“Thanks,” mutters Mycroft, trying to ignore the gentle brush of Greg’s fingers against his own. Even though he no longer feels as sick, he’s completely exhausted. His legs still feel wobbly, too. He knows he should eat, for the energy, but the idea isn’t appealing.

“They’ll start serving dinner soon,” says Greg, putting his schoolbooks and things back into his backpack. “Up for it yet?”

Mycroft sighs. “Actually, I –” he hesitates. “I might not bother.”

Greg looks up at him. “You have to eat _something,”_ he says, easily. “You haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

“The idea truly does not appeal at the moment.”

Greg grimaces sympathetically. “I get it. Feeling sick is crap. Why don’t you have a nap? Sleep it off?”

Mycroft normally does not _nap,_ but he has to admit that it sounds heavenly. He nods. “Yes – I shall –” he gestures to the door. “Thank you for –”

“Oh – just have a nap here,” says Greg, cheeks slightly pink. He holds out a warm, comfortable-looking blanket. “We can go down to dinner together in a bit.”

Mycroft doesn’t seem to be able to say anything. His hand tightens around the handle of the bag from the apothecary.

“Er – I mean,” says Greg awkwardly, “all the beds are free. And I’ll be downstairs. In the common room. Working on my essay. My Transfiguration essay.” He runs his hand through his silver hair, and stares fixedly at the blanket he’s still holding.

Mycroft blinks several times, and cannot quite understand his own actions when he reaches out to take the blanket from Greg. His heart is beating hard in his chest, and it’s a struggle to keep his voice even as he mutters, “thank you.”

Greg gives him an uncertain grin, looking up from under his eyelashes. Hurriedly, he picks up his backpack and leaves the dorm.

Mycroft stands still for a few seconds, then crosses to the window and looks out over the dark, snowy walls of the castle.

He takes off his robes and jacket, then curls up on top of the counterpane of one of the beds nearest the window, huddling the blanket around him. It has a warm, comforting smell, and he buries his nose in it. For a while, he stares out through the crackled leads of the window at the starry sky, but it doesn’t take long for him to drift into sleep.

He wakes some time later, quite suddenly. Eyes open, he sits up, disorientated. In the time it takes to check his watch, he remembers where he is and what is happening. When he stands up from the bed, the nausea that dogged him earlier seems to have dissipated.

He folds the blanket into a severely neat square and places it on the end of Greg’s bed, then uses the bathroom. He fixes his hair, which has ended up in disarray due to Floo travel and sleep. Pulling his jacket back on, he carries his robes and bag of purchases down the stairs to the common room.

Greg looks up from the armchair by the fire, where he is leaning forward, setting out the last of a makeshift meal. On napkins – clearly taken from the dinner hall – are bread rolls, cheese and grapes. He has set out the two plastic flask cups, too.

“Um –” he says, and clears his throat. “Thought you might still be feeling a bit too shit to go down to dinner. So.” He looks down at the table and stands up quickly, picking up the flask cups. “I thought – I didn’t know – water? Or Butterbeer? Prob’ly not Butterbeer –”

Mycroft, pushing down his surprise, shakes his head. “Not after earlier, thank you,” he says quietly. “Water would be – nice.”

“Right – right, yep,” says Greg, bustling away with the cups. Mycroft takes his usual armchair and surveys the picnic. His stomach rumbles, and he realises how hungry he is.

“There y’are,” mumbles Greg, setting down the cups of water and resuming his armchair. “Hope this is alright.” He flicks a glance up to Mycroft’s face and looks quickly down at the table again. “I brought more napkins for plates, and some cutlery –”

Mycroft leans forward and takes a bread roll, some cheese and a few grapes, then settles back into his armchair. “This is –” he hesitates. The word _wonderful_  had been fighting its way off his tongue, but he is shy of being overly bombastic. _A gentleman never exaggerates,_ says his mother’s voice in the back of his brain. “Thank you,” he finishes, lamely.

“Nah, it’s fine,” says Greg, taking a bite of the makeshift cheese sandwich he’s fashioned. “Merlin, I was going to come and wake you up soon though! I’m starving, even though I had lunch with Aunt Mae.”

“Mm,” replies Mycroft, finishing a delicious mouthful of bread and cheese. “At the Leaky Cauldron?”

“Yeah, she likes it in there despite all the weirdos,” grins Greg. “Have to admit, lunch was great. Bangers and mash for me. And bread and butter pudding for afters.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, since his mouth is full of grapes and cheese.

“I’m really sorry about – y’know. You accidentally meeting her,” says Greg awkwardly. “I was trying to get rid of her, but it was just bad timing with the petshop and everything…” he trails off, picking at his bread roll.

“Truly, Greg, I did not mind,” replies Mycroft. The wellbeing from actually being able to eat again is taking effect. “She was perfectly nice.”

Greg glances over to him, as if to read him for sincerity, then grins. “Although we did interrupt your time with the kittens.”

Mycroft can’t help it. He can feel his cheeks start to turn pink. He presses his lips together thinly.

Greg chuckles, eyes warm. “So much for the stern Slytherin Head Boy image,” he laughs.

Mycroft draws himself up in his chair. “I understand even Voldemort had a beloved pet,” he says, tightly.

Greg snorts. “Yeah, an evil Horcrux snake. That kitten was really fluffy. And very, _very_ cute.”

Mycroft glares at him.

Greg grins. “It had a really sweet little _miaow._  And it was playing with the sleeve of your robes.” His eyes twinkle in the firelight. “‘They are so gloriously selfish’ my _arse,_ Mycroft. You just love fluffy little kittens.”

“Shut up, Gregory,” Mycroft says haughtily, and takes a bite of bread and cheese.

Greg leans forward to make himself another sandwich. “Shutting up,” he murmurs. “You’ll be glad to hear I saw Sherlock and John down at dinner. They didn’t look as if they’d blown themselves up recently or anything. Sherlock watched me like a hawk while I was collecting stuff for this.” He gestures generally to the table.

Mycroft flushes slightly. Doubtless he will face several pointed remarks from Sherlock on the subject of evening picnics in Gryffindor Tower with his new _friend_ next time he sees him. At least – apparently – he should be safe from his younger brother in here.

“It is good to hear he is still in the land of the living,” he says drily, leaning forward to take some more grapes.

“What d’you want to get up to tomorrow, then?” asks Greg, lounging back in his chair, legs outstretched to the fire. “Nowhere on the Floo network, obviously,” he smiles.

“Quite,” acknowledges Mycroft. “I had not expected anything different from usual. Library. Perhaps a walk.”

“It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow,” says Greg incredulously. “You really going to work?”

Mycroft is rather nonplussed. “Is there some tradition that dictates otherwise?”

“Nah – no, it’s just…nothing really happens on Christmas Eve, I s’pose. You just wrap presents and watch films and drink mulled wine,” he shrugs. “At least in my house, anyway.” He pauses and looks at Mycroft. “Please tell me you’ve tried mulled wine.”

Mycroft nods. “Indeed. It is a staple at my parents’ Christmas parties.”

Greg’s eyebrows lift. “Good parties?”

Mycroft grimaces. “‘Networking’.”

“Ugh,” says Greg. “Sounds awful.”

“Yes.” Mycroft eats some more grapes, shifting so that his feet stretch close to the warmth of the fire. When Greg does not speak, he adds, “I shall be pleased not to attend this year.”

Greg chews thoughtfully. “Same sort of thing for New Year, I’m guessing?”

“Indeed.”

There’s a short silence. Both boys watch the shifting shapes of flame in the grate.

“Well I was thinking of trying to get John out to the pitch tomorrow morning,” says Greg, into the hush. “I know it’s not really thawing, but we could at least get a bit of flying practice in, do some sprints and turns and stuff to work on his speed.” He hesitates, and glances at Mycroft obliquely. “If you wanted a walk you could always come down to the pitch for a bit, see how it’s going. I’m going to send John an owl in a bit, but I reckon we’ll be down there until about ten-thirty, eleven.” He yawns. “Don’t particularly fancy getting up really early for it, and I’ll want breakfast beforehand.”

Mycroft nods. “Thank you,” he says, politely. He can’t help taking another bread roll and a sliver more cheese.

“What normally happens in your house on Christmas Day, then?” asks Greg curiously, propping his head on his hand.

Mycroft shifts in his chair. “Lunch with some of my parents’ friends and acquaintances,” he says diffidently. “Followed by an exchange of gifts.”

Greg looks at him steadily. “That just with the family, then? Or –”

“No,” says Mycroft, staring into the fire. “It is more of a –” he hesitates, unsure of the correct way to phrase it. “Public occasion.”

“Oh.” Greg doesn’t seem to know what to say.

Mycroft clears his throat. “And your father’s house? What is Christmas like, usually?”

Greg’s grin is broad. “Well, normally I don’t get up until pretty late nowadays, although when I was little I used to bounce out of bed at five and he’d tell me off, tell me I had to wait until at least seven-thirty. So I come downstairs, and he makes us a cup of tea, then I open the presents from Santa in my stocking, and eat the chocolate money for breakfast. Then I have __real__ breakfast –” he laughs at Mycroft’s attempt to disguise his horrified expression. “It’s only one day a year.” He smiles. “Then we get ready and drive over to my sister and brother-in-law’s place, it’s easier for us to go to them, so they don’t have to get all the kids in the car. We have lunch at theirs, although by the time we sit down to eat it’s probably about three or four, so I guess it’s kind of in between lunch and dinner. After that we do presents with the kids and watch the Queen’s speech, then Doctor Who. Then they have to put the kids to bed, and we have a few drinks – well, depending on whose turn it is to drive, me or Dad –”

“Oh, you can drive a car?” Mycroft breaks in, then flinches at his own rudeness. “My apologies –”

Greg waves his hand. “No worries – yeah, I passed at the end of last summer. You can take your test when you’re seventeen, but I needed some more lessons over summer ’cause it’d been months since I’d had any.”

Mycroft stares at him, fascinated. “And at Christmas, you naturally wish to avoid ‘drunk driving’.” He uses the term from his Muggle Studies textbook with caution.

Greg grins at him. “Yeah, that’s right. Just like a broomstick, really,” he smiles, eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Please continue telling me about your Christmas,” returns Mycroft, stiffly.

“Yeah. So we have a few drinks and watch whatever film’s on, and then eventually have some cold turkey and stuffing sandwiches, whenever we get hungry again,” smiles Greg. “Then Dad and I go home. That’s about it, really.” He yawns. “And on Boxing Day we meet up for a walk at this nature reserve nearby. The kids can let off steam and it walks off some of the food.”

“That sounds – nice,” murmurs Mycroft. That Greg enjoys spending time with his family is manifest. He cannot imagine an experience further removed from his own. He lets the flames of the fire imprint negative images on his sight, gaze unfocused as he remembers scenes from the frosty parties full of people to impress, and trying to ensure that Sherlock does not viciously deduce a dinner table of important guests. It happened once. The ensuing argument between Sherlock and their parents is one of the memories that Mycroft allows his mind to slide away from.

“Yeah – yeah, it’s not bad,” says Greg. He sounds a little awkward, as though he is aware that Mycroft cannot have similarly happy tales to tell. “So –” he pauses. “You’ve not been in a car then?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Never.”

“Wow. Yeah. I still forget,” says Greg with a huff of amusement. “You’d probably like it more than the Floo network. Unless you get car-sick, of course.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Surely it is not designed to be as – vigorous a ride as the Floo network?”

“Ha. No, although it depends how old the car is,” chuckles Greg. “I’ve got one friend at home who’s got an old Mini and the bloody thing’s still got a throttle. And you can basically see the tarmac through the floor.” He snorts, and then realises that Mycroft is completely at sea. “Er – it’s a bit of an old banger,” he summarises. “Fear of death on every drive.”

“I see,” murmurs Mycroft. “So – you still have –”

“Muggle friends?” finishes Greg. “Yeah – well –” he grimaces guiltily. “Actually I don’t see them as much as I should any more, I’m pretty terrible at keeping up with them. Have to have a major catch-up with them all every time I’m home. Part of it’s the fact I’d have to send them a bloody owl. But yeah, mostly people from primary school.”

Mycroft nods.

“What about you?” asks Greg, tentatively.

Mycroft shakes his head, tightly. “Anyone my parents would regard as a suitable acquaintance for me would, of course, be admitted to Hogwarts, or to one of the other wizarding schools.”

Greg’s eyes go round for a moment, then he settles more comfortably into his chair, kicking his legs lazily over the arm. He makes an amused sound. “God, Mycroft, imagine what they’d think of me.” He giggles.

Mycroft can imagine it only too clearly. He reciprocates Greg’s smile, his own a little tight. He tries to infuse it with as much warmth as possible. Flicking his gaze to Greg, he finds the silver-haired boy watching him, eyes dark in the firelight.

“After school, then,” says Greg lazily. “I’m not even sure what the process is for getting a job at the Ministry.”

Mycroft shifts in his chair, balling up the napkin and dropping it onto the table. “I understand that the Ministry opens up a general interviewing window, during which it assesses witches and wizards who want to undertake a career in the Ministry, testing their skills in certain areas and funnelling them towards whichever department will suit them best.”

“Oh, right. So if you’ve got a specific thing in mind, you can’t just apply for that? Or –”

“Well, I understand they do take into account your preferences, as long as you have the required N.E.W.T. grades.”

“Oh.” Greg runs his hand through his hair and stretches towards the fire. “Honestly it’s terrifying just thinking about it.” He picks idly at the grapes. “Still, if I get a job it’ll mean I can afford a place of my own. Guessing my Dad and Julie might want to move in together before too long.” He huffs with amusement. “Unless they’ve ended up wanting to kill each other stuck on a cruise for three weeks.”

Mycroft half-smiles at that. “Father informed me that rental prices are extremely high in London, but that the Ministry has some controlled-price accommodation which it is possible to apply for.”

“Yeah, renting and buying in London is a nightmare,” yawns Greg. “My brother-in-law works in the centre of London but he has to commute for an hour and a half to get there. Houses any closer in were way too expensive. Aunt Mae’s lucky with her place. She bought it years ago when the area was really dodgy, but it’s all gentrified now and she’s still got her flat. Could probably make a mint if she sold it. At least being a wizard I could technically live anywhere and still Apparate to work in the morning.”

Mycroft nods. “Indeed.” Somehow, he is extremely tired again. He sits up straight in his chair and looks at the remains of the picnic on the table. “I must return to Slytherin, but can I help with –” he gestures to the untidy scene.

“Nah, really, it’s good,” says Greg, standing up as Mycroft does. Mycroft picks up his robes and apothecary bag, and Greg walks him to the portrait hole. “So I might see you at the pitch in the morning?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft, flicking his gaze to Greg’s. “And I plan to work in the library in the afternoon. So –”

“Cool, I’ll join you then,” says Greg hastily. “If that’s okay.”

“Certainly.” Mycroft clears his throat. “Thank you for this. Today.” He looks diffidently at the red Gryffindor wall-hangings. “It was – enjoyable.”

“Oh – yeah – no, I mean, I’m glad,” mumbles Greg. “Sorry about the Floo travel.”

Mycroft gestures his lack of concern and clambers out of the portrait hole. As he walks away down the corridor, he can hear Violet’s slurred whisper to the Fat Lady, who seems to be back. “You know, I don’t reckon they _are,_  luv. Why’s ’e off back to ’is dungeon, then?”


	9. Chapter 9

The snow is still crisp as Mycroft makes his way down to the Quidditch pitch. He watches a flurry of owls around the Owlery; they must be settling after the breakfast post, although he cannot imagine it is particularly busy over the holiday. Further up, a line of geese honks across the sky, forming lazily into a truncated ‘V’.

His steps slow as he approaches the pitch. He is not sure whether this is a good idea. It’s not as though Greg specifically _requested_ his attendance, and indeed he is not exactly clear what he is supposed to _do_ once he is there. He had not fancied breakfast this morning, and spent several hours in Slytherin Dungeon common room, reading and taking quotations from the book he had bought the day before. It had indeed proved useful for his Transfiguration essay, and now there only remained the full, tidy reference list to complete.

Still, the walk has a clearing effect on his brain. He remembers a particular point he wants to make in his Potions essay, and speeds up to find a place in the stands at the pitch, not even glancing up. Hurriedly, he brushes away the snow from a spot at the top of the stands and pulls a scrap of parchment and biro from his pocket. He makes some notes then pauses in his thought process, allowing his eyes to rise to where two small broomstick riders are racing several metres above him.

For a few moments he lets his gaze follow the larger of these two figures, performing snap turns and rolls to escape the marking of the other, smaller boy. Greg’s hair is bright silver in the morning light, catching the cold winter rays as he flashes past.

Mycroft returns to earth and pulls a copy of _The Practical Potioneer_  out of his pocket. He tries to lose himself in the article about the Draught of Living Death that he’d checked it out of the library for, but more often than not, finds himself watching the antics of the flyers above.

“I see you were able to bribe Lestrade in turn,” says Sherlock, eyes cold as he stands looking down at his older brother.

Mycroft flushes. “It did not seem particularly useful, locked in my trunk.”

“Oh, _of course,”_  says Sherlock scathingly, as he uses a hot-air charm to clear the bench. He makes sure to sit pointedly a couple of feet away.

“You could have had the broom, if you wanted it,” says Mycroft evenly.

__“I__ didn’t want the thing,” returns Sherlock spitefully. “I am simply impressedby how well Father has taught you.”

Mycroft suppresses his urge to snarl an answer. “It is not a bribe, Sherlock. Merely an attempt to do something useful with an object I was obliged to accept.”

“You’re not _obliged_ to do anything, Mycroft,” spits Sherlock. “But you do, anyway.”

The brothers glare at one another until Mycroft looks away, over the grounds. His stomach feels heavy.

“And did you hear from our beloved parents yesterday?” Sherlock adds, coldly.

“No.” Mycroft’s tone is clipped.

He can hear the half-smile in Sherlock’s voice. “What a surprise.”

“Oi! Mycroft! Sherlock!” The yell comes from the Quidditch pitch below them, where John and Greg have landed. Greg is grinning up at them. “Come on – lunch?”

“Oh, wonderful,” says Sherlock drily. He stands up and sweeps past Mycroft, holding his robes exaggeratedly around himself. “I find myself not particularly hungry.”

Mycroft realises that he is starving. He allows Sherlock to descend the steps alone as he shoves parchment, pen and journal into the pockets of his robes.

Greg smiles rather less confidently as Mycroft descends the last few steps. “Everything alright?” he asks. “Sherlock looked like thunder.”

Mycroft glances ahead. Sherlock is striding up to the castle, with John a half-pace behind.

“Argument or something?” asks Greg, putting the Firebolt over his shoulder.

Mycroft suppresses a sigh and shakes his head, looking down at the snow. “Not really.”

They start towards the castle. “You had a good morning?” asks Greg.

“Fine, thank you,” returns Mycroft. “I made some changes to my Transfiguration essay using a book I picked up at the secondhand bookshop yesterday.”

He can feel Greg looking at him. “You didn’t eat breakfast, did you?” asks the other boy, voice warm.

“I –” Mycroft hesitates, and glances at Greg, “forgot.”

Greg chuckles. “Honestly. I don’t know how you __can.__ I can’t function until I’ve had breakfast. I had porridge, toast and eggs, and fruit and yoghurt this morning. We did fly for a couple of hours though.” He grins. “Merlin, Mycroft, this broom – it’s _amazing._ Even with John being __way__ smaller than me, and his speed advantage, I was still managing to get past him a lot of the time. I can’t wait until first practice, see how it is with the rest of the team.”

Greg’s enthusiasm alleviates some of the cold feeling that Sherlock’s words had caused in the pit of his stomach. He offers a shy smile, then glances away across the courtyard.

John has obviously talked Sherlock into lunch, because when Mycroft and Greg enter the Great Hall the boys are seated at the Gryffindor table. Sherlock’s eyes are sharp, the set of his chin and the line of his eyebrow a warning. When Greg tries to lead him to join them at Gryffindor, Mycroft gives a half-shake of his head. They move to Slytherin instead.

Greg’s expression is all curiosity, but he bites his bottom lip and concentrates on filling his plate with cauliflower and macaroni cheese. Mycroft takes some crackers, cream cheese, cucumber, salad and olives, and tries to be unobtrusive. He has the impression that Sherlock is still watching him.

“I got an owl from Emma at breakfast,” says Greg easily, taking a gulp of pumpkin juice. “Y’know I said I was going to meet up with them one day in the holiday?” He cuts up a piece of cauliflower. “Well they were asking about dates after Boxing Day and before New Year. Apparently Dave’s got that off work, so they were thinking we could meet up in London, go for a walk in one of the parks, maybe go for tea afterwards. Somewhere kid-friendly, of course.”

Mycroft nods. “That sounds most enjoyable,” he says quietly.

“Yeah. I need to actually get all my essays done though,” grins Greg. “This is the point in the holiday where I suddenly start realising how much there is still to do. Still on for the library this afternoon?”

“Indeed.” Mycroft takes a drink of water and glances at the other boy. “I too still have plenty to do.”

Greg nods, smiling gently. “Cool. I’ll get the flask when I go back up to the common room, then I can get us some tea for while we’re working.”

Mycroft can’t help a small smile. “Please attempt not to Transfigure it into any birds this time.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” says Greg, rolling his eyes. “I deserved that.” His smile is bright, and Mycroft looks hurriedly down at his meal.

*

The afternoon passes quickly, and by the time Greg interrupts him to say that dinner will be starting soon, Mycroft has a full first draft of his Potions essay. He nods absently at Greg, still writing, until the other boy touches him gently on the arm.

“Oi,” whispers Greg. “Come on. I’m starving again.”

“Mm,” murmurs Mycroft. “I can join you…” he trails off, adding a note in the margin that he needs to improve his point about the historical uses of Wormwood.

“Not a chance,” mutters Greg. “You’ll never make it to dinner if I leave you here. Madam Blackthorn’ll be throwing you out at eleven o’clock before you know it.”

“Mm,” returns Mycroft, absently.

“Nope,” whispers Greg, stealing his quill. “Come on.”

Mycroft glares at him, but blots the last couple of lines and rolls up his parchment. He packs everything away in his bag and follows the other boy out of the library.

“How do you do that?” asks Greg, smiling at him. “I feel like you can barely hear me when you’re concentrating that hard.”

“Oh no, I can hear you,” says Mycroft coldly. “That is the problem.”

Greg chuckles and shoves him with his shoulder. “Alright, git.”

Mycroft cannot help a small smile, a fizz of strange happiness down his spine at the realisation that Greg understood his joke. He fiddles nervously with the strap of his bag.

*

At dinner, Greg insists he try some of the delicious pizza, and almost succeeds in getting Mycroft to have some ice cream for pudding.

“Pizza and ice cream,” he grins. “Feels like a kids’ party. Just need some Party Rings and a hedgehog of cheese and pineapple –” he breaks off and laughs at Mycroft’s expression. “You must think I sound mental sometimes.”

“I confess, I was wondering if perhaps you had suffered some break from reality –”

“Snarky bastard,” grins Greg. “Obviously your parents threw much fancier kids’ parties than mine.”

“Clearly,” says Mycroft drily, not thinking about his childhood birthday celebrations. “What were yours doing with a hedgehog?”

“Well it’s not a real hedgehog. You make a sort of…hedgehog shape out of tin foil in the middle. And then stick cocktail sticks into it, with bits of cheese and pineapple on. And eventually it sort of looks like a…fruit and dairy hedgehog.”

There’s a pause. “Oh.”

“That’s about it really,” snorts Greg. “You should see your face, Mycroft.” He finishes his ice cream and leans his elbows on the table. “Gryffindor Tower? Butterbeer?”

“Oh –” Mycroft sits up straight. “Actually – I need to return to Slytherin. To wrap Sherlock’s presents. And I should write a letter to our parents,” he adds reluctantly. “I am sure Sherlock will not.”

“Ah right, okay,” says Greg, voice carefully neutral. “Well you can always come by later if you want. Password’s still not changed.”

Mycroft nods, looking down at his empty plate.

“Or –” Greg hesitates.

“Perhaps –” says Mycroft at the same time. He understood from Greg previously that the timing of the sock full of food was important on Christmas morning. They both pause.

“After you,” smiles Greg.

“Perhaps I could come to Gryffindor Tower in the morning?” asks Mycroft, staring fixedly at a glass further down the table. “We could go down to breakfast. Then.” He knots his hands in his lap. “Together, I mean.”

Greg shifts on the bench, but Mycroft doesn’t look up at him. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great,” says the other boy enthusiastically. “Cool.”

Mycroft nods and leans down to pick up his bag. “Right.”

*

“Well, now, Merry Christmas Mister Slytherin,” says the Fat Lady. Mycroft can hear Violet giggling wildly just outside the frame, and there is a mysterious clinking of bottles.

“Merry Christmas,” he says politely. “Coconut milk.”

“Hmmph,” hiccups the Fat Lady. “Gonna ’ave ter do something about the password, Vi. Not Chrish– Chrishmashy enough.”

Mycroft clicks the portrait hole shut behind him and looks over at the fireplace. Greg stands up quickly and grins. “G’morning! Um – Merry Christmas.” He waits irresolutely by his armchair, hands shoved into jeans pockets. He is wearing a truly hideous woolly jumper. It has a demented-looking cross-eyed reindeer with a bright red nose on the front.

“Merry Christmas,” says Mycroft. He can’t take his eyes from the awful object. Automatically, he holds out the jumper he had borrowed, folded extremely neatly. “I brought this back.”

Greg starts to laugh. “Um, thanks,” he says. “Honestly, Mycroft – your face –”

Mycroft stares at him. “Is there a…traditional reason for – this?” he gestures at Greg’s chest.

“Yeah, Dad and I always wear the worst Christmas jumpers we can find,” says Greg. “It’s sort of a competition.”

“Well, your father is safely on a boat this year, and unable to perpetrate a woolly atrocity of similar scale,” says Mycroft, taking a seat in his armchair. “Thank goodness.”

Greg just laughs harder, taking the proffered jumper. “Thanks. But I’m afraid I’m not changing out of this one.”

“Your choice, of course,” murmurs Mycroft, but he knows that Greg can see the tiny smile curling the edges of his lips. There’s a slightly awkward pause. He fumbles in his jacket pocket. “I – understand that this is traditional too.”

He feels a fool holding out a lumpy sock. Greg stares at it for a few moments, then reaches across and plucks it from Mycroft’s fingers. He upends it and catches a clementine, a walnut _(with_  shell, the book on Muggle traditions Mycroft found in the library had informed him) and two bags of chocolate wizarding money in his other hand.

Mycroft watches Greg’s long, dark lashes sweep across his cheeks, and then he’s pinned in place by his intense gaze. “Oh my God, Mycroft, thank you,” smiles Greg. His voice is rich with surprise. “Thank you.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I can have my traditional pre-breakfast breakfast now,” he grins. “You have to have a Galleon. Sorry, them’s the Christmas rules.”

Mycroft gives a quick half-smile. “I could have a Sickle.”

“Nah,” smiles Greg, throwing him a chocolate Galleon. “Eat up and shut up.”

Mycroft lets the delicious chocolate coin dissolve on his tongue, wishing for a cup of Earl Grey to go with it.

“Actually,” says Greg hesitantly. Mycroft looks up at him. “I – um – got you this.” He holds out a small gift-wrapped parcel.

Slowly, Mycroft takes it and begins to unwrap it. “You did not have to do this.”

Greg waves his hand and puts another chocolate coin in his mouth. Mycroft opens the parcel to find a black fountain pen and a box of ink cartridges inside.

“It’s not – I mean, it really wasn’t expensive, I just thought it might be easier than the bloody quill, and I’m sure you can get a better one if you like it,” he mumbles.

Mycroft looks up at him, and he knows that his cheeks have flushed pink. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “Very much.”

Greg blinks and shakes his head, then grabs another chocolate coin and sits back in the armchair, tucking his feet up under him. “You get any good presents, then?”

Mycroft sits up straight. “Our parents will have put money into our bank accounts,” he says blankly. “And you?”

Greg hesitates for half a second, but then he says, “yeah, good. Dad and Julie sent a postcard to me at Emma’s, and she sent it on in a big box of stuff, including this outstanding jumper. And some new jeans – um, some more stationery and stuff, a couple of books I asked for, and some Muggle biscuits.” He grins. “Sounds like Dad and Julie are having a great time.”

Mycroft nods, and looks to him with a quick smile. “Good. And thank you again for this,” he says, turning the pen over in his long fingers.

“Honestly,” mumbles Greg. “’S’nothing. Chocolate coin?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No thank you. I am rather in need of a cup of tea, however.”

“Shall we go down?”

“That sounds good.”

They stand up, and Greg grins at him. “Your suit looks great, but let me know if you want to borrow a Christmas jumper.”

“Good grief. You have another one?”

“Yeah, ’course. This one’s new. I brought one of my old ones with me at the end of last term. It’s way too tasteful, though, compared to this.”

Mycroft looks at him sceptically. “And what do you count as ‘tasteful’?”

“Piglet and Winnie the Pooh getting pissed with Santa under a Christmas tree.” Mycroft shudders, and Greg snorts. “But then one of my mates pointed out that Winnie the Pooh isn’t wearing any trousers, and it all got a bit disturbing.”

“Winnie the Pooh is a stuffed bear, yes?”

“Yeah,” chuckles Greg. “Top-notch Muggle knowledge.”

“Bears do not usually wear trousers.”

“Yeah, well that’s what I said, but my mate pointed out he _is_ wearing a jumper and a Christmas hat, so really he should be wearing trousers, unless something a bit weird’s going on.”

Mycroft looks at him, unsure what to say.

Greg sits back down in his armchair, giggling hard. “We might’ve had a bit of wine.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I need a cup of tea – or possibly two – before I discuss Winnie the Pooh’s lack of trousers any further.”

*

Breakfast is quiet, the Great Hall silent apart from the desultory chat of a couple of Professors on the dais and the occasional soft sweep of an owl’s wings.

“Everyone’s saving their appetite for lunch,” says Greg, taking a large helping of porridge.

Mycroft nods. “It is only a couple of hours until lunch begins,” he returns as he cuts up an apple.

“Dreading it after what you said before,” mumbles Greg. “The singing and all that.”

Mycroft grimaces sourly. “Yes. It is unfortunate.”

“I apologise in advance for the awful noises coming out of my face,” grins Greg. “Doesn’t really count as singing.”

“Likewise.”

“Maybe we could just…” Greg sighs, “go to the Broomsticks for lunch.”

“Surely it would not be open.”

“Dunno,” shrugs Greg. “I’d’ve thought Christmas’d be a big moneymaking day. People going in for drinks and stuff.”

Mycroft concedes with a tip of the head.

Greg sighs. “Anyway, we can’t,” he says reluctantly. “I need to give John his present, and you need to give Sherlock his. And I don’t think McGonagall’d let us get away with it. ’Specially not Head Boy.”

“You are right,” says Mycroft reluctantly.

“We could go for a walk ’round the grounds after breakfast?” suggests Greg. “Get a bit of appetite back for lunch.”

Mycroft nods his assent and pours himself a cup of tea.

The air is freezing when they step outside, breath mingling in clouds as they descend the castle steps.

“Bet you wish it’d snow again,” smiles Greg. “Not many untouched bits to walk in now.”

Indeed, the castle courtyard is criss-crossed with lines of footsteps, and though it has not thawed to slush the snow is not as pristine as before.

Mycroft flushes and looks up at the lowering grey sky. “It looks as though it might.”

Greg sighs. “Better’ve gone by the time the team start coming back.”

“Could the caretakers clear the pitch for you?”

“They do it for matches, but I’ve never seen ’em bother for practice,” sighs Greg. “Just a nuisance trying to get everyone motivated to practice when it’s like that. They moan on about it, especially after the holiday when they’ve got used to sitting around doing nothing and eating all the time.” He grins. “To be fair I’m not exactly as enthusiastic as normal either.”

“Good grief, I dread to think how enthusiastic you are usually.”

Greg grins at him. “Sarky git.”

Mycroft can’t help the pleased smile that tugs at the edges of his lips.

The view over Hogsmeade village is comfortingly familiar, the snowy roofs heaped high in graceful drifts. As they turn off to make the loop around towards the lake, a couple of magpies observe them beadily from a tree at the edge of the path.

“Must be fully frozen over by now,” smiles Greg, nodding to the lake. “We could do that skating.”

Mycroft flinches. “Er…” He can feel Greg look at him.

“Not keen?” asks Greg.

Mycroft pushes his hands further into the pockets of his robes and watches his own careful steps in the snow. “I have not skated for some years. I believe the last time was aged nine.” He hesitates. “I remember simply – falling over a lot.”

Greg chuckles. “Yeah, it’s not exactly easy. Thought you’d glide about like a bloody swan though.”

Mycroft looks away, focusing on the drift of snow heaped over the fence behind the gamekeeper’s cottage. “Hardly.”

He almost jumps when he feels a gentle, fleeting touch to his arm. “S’alright,” the other boy says. “I can teach you. There was a fashion for it at my primary school for a bit, for birthday parties and stuff. I loved it so my Dad kept taking me, most weeks for a while.” He huffs amusement. “Only stopped going when my friends found out in the last year of primary school, took the piss ruthlessly. They thought it was pretty funny, since I was obsessed with football and rugby, on the footie team and all that. Called me Billy Elliott for a while.”

Mycroft hesitates. “Sorry –”

“Oh, damn, sorry – it’s another film. About a Northern kid who just wants to be a ballet dancer. Not his miner Dad’s idea of a decent career for a boy.”

“Ah, I see.” Mycroft draws his shoulders up in an attempt to quell a shiver. The cold is biting at his cheeks and ears. He is not sure why he adds the next remark. “Perhaps if ice skating is not entirely different from dancing, it will not be too hard to master.”

In the corner of his eye, he can see Greg turn to look at him. “You can dance?”

Mycroft can feel his cheeks turn pink. “Only the basics,” he lies. “My parents insisted that ballroom dancing is a skill important for a career in the Ministry.”

“Not for an Auror,” says Greg, and Mycroft can hear the grin in his voice. “But maybe for a high-up.” Mycroft narrows his eyes at him, and Greg grins back, cheeks dimpling. “You’ll be all good for the summer ball, then,” he adds.

Mycroft turns his gaze away, looking out across the lake. He cannot imagine himself needing to dance at the ball.

“If I teach you to skate, maybe you could teach me to dance in time for the ball,” says Greg, and for once Mycroft cannot read his voice. He closes his eyes in a long, wincing blink, head still turned away from the other boy.

“I can _try,”_ he says, attempting to regain the joking tone they had found before.

“Oh, _alright,_ bastard,” says Greg amusedly in return. Perhaps it is Mycroft’s imagination that he sounds a little relieved. “I know I’m just a half-breed pleb, but surely my overwhelmingly graceful prowess in the air has got to help?”

“I am afraid it does not follow,” says Mycroft gravely. “Sherlock is an excellent dancer, but as your –” he hesitates just a little “– your friend informed you, he is hardly confident on a broom.”

“Ah, bugger,” grumbles Greg. They have come to a halt at the edge of the frozen lake, and Mycroft sees in his peripheral vision that the other boy has turned to look at him. “You look frozen, Mycroft. Are you shivering?” asks Greg.

“No,” says Mycroft, attempting to control his chattering teeth.

“Um, I think you are,” says Greg. “Come on, let’s walk fast back up to the castle. Not long until lunch starts, anyway. And the singing,” he adds gloomily.

“Maybe she won’t make us sing this time,” says Mycroft.

*

‘Excruciatingly embarrassing’ would be Mycroft’s description of choice for the enforced carol singing. Mycroft’s cheeks burn as he mumbles the words to ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’. Looking down at the bright red tablecloth, he avoids Greg’s eyes for fear of either laughter or further embarrassment.

He cannot hear Sherlock singing, of course. John has rather a good voice, when he’s not giggling. Jen seems entirely unembarrassed, and her friend Nessa clearly has vocal talent. Luckily enough of the Professors are prepared to sing that the carol echoes loudly in the expanse of the Great Hall.

After that, lunch improves. There are very few students left at Hogwarts, but quite a few Professors, and Mycroft has reason to suspect that their pumpkin juice may have one or two added ingredients. Professor McGonagall is looking far less dour than usual, and Flitwick is positively giggly.

Sherlock glowers at Mycroft whenever he can, but even he is wearing the paper hat that John forced on him. Greg drops roast potatoes onto Mycroft’s plate with a no-nonsense look, and Mycroft enjoys them hugely. The Christmas pudding is delicious, magical flame dancing on every spoonful.

Sherlock watches Mycroft eat the pudding with a superior quirk to his lips, but Greg looks so simply _pleased_  that Mycroft does not want to stop.

“Need you two to come back to Gryffindor Tower for a bit after lunch,” says Greg to John and Sherlock.

John snorts. “You know he’s banned,” he says, nodding at Sherlock.

“As if I could forget,” chuckles Greg in return.

Jen leans across him. “To be honest, the Fat Lady and Vi have been – er – celebrating since about six this morning so I can’t imagine they’ll even notice who you are,” she giggles.

John laughs. “Merlin,” mutters Greg, shaking his head. “Where do they even get all the booze _from?”_

“I asked them that,” says Jen. “They said they get it from paintings of Roman Bacchanalia. Apparently the amphorae are full of endless wine.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “They’ll probably be out cold by the time we get back.”

Jen snorts her amusement. “Doubt it. If anyone’s had practice, it’s them.”

Greg concedes the point with a shrug and a grin. Mycroft has finished his pudding, and puts his spoon and fork carefully together in the bowl.

Perhaps it is the precision, the fussiness of the movement which provokes Sherlock. “You’re not wearing your _hat,_ Mycroft,” he clips out. Mycroft feels his spine stiffen, and he tightens his lips into a line. Fishing in the debris on the table, Sherlock holds out an orange paper hat. “Should go nicely with your hair,” he says innocently.

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, fighting the blush that he can feel ready to spread across his cheeks.

Greg plucks the orange hat from Sherlock’s fingers and puts it on his own head, then flicks his wand at a green hat, which unfolds and settles itself with a whispering rustle on Mycroft’s head. The feather touch of the paper at his temples almost makes him shiver.

Mycroft flicks his eyes to Greg’s for a moment and bites his bottom lip. Greg shoots him a small smile and returns to finishing his Christmas pudding. A glance tells Mycroft that Sherlock is furious, eyes showing a stormy dark silver.

Sherlock looks at Greg for a long moment, then slides his piercing gaze to Mycroft. “How was your birthday, dear brother?” he asks.

There’s a short silence. Mycroft is definitely red now. His breath catches in the back of his throat.

Greg shifts on the bench, turning to look at Sherlock. “Birthday?” he asks.

Sherlock locks eye contact with Mycroft for a moment, then focuses on Greg again. His eyes are wide, a parody of innocence. “Oh, didn’t he tell you? It was the day before yesterday. The twenty-third.”

There is a terribly long moment. Greg looks down at his plate, shoulders hunching a little. “Oh, right,” he says, dully.

Mycroft has no idea what to say. He struggles to keep his breathing even, anger at Sherlock stopping his throat. His heart contracts painfully at the sound of Greg’s voice. He does not meet anyone’s eyes.

Jen keeps the conversation going with John and Nessa, but Mycroft hardly hears a word, and before long, lunch is over.


	10. Chapter 10

The atmosphere between the brothers is heavy. John and Greg chat uneasily as they enter Gryffindor Tower. John’s pleasure at the gift of sweets from Greg is overshadowed by the awkwardness as Mycroft hands a box of presents to a glowering Sherlock.

Angrily, high cheekbones flushed just a little, Sherlock accepts the box, but does not open it.

Mycroft cannot look at Greg, at anyone but Sherlock. His little brother’s sulky behaviour is hardly a surprise. Mycroft knows that his own colour is high with anger and embarrassment. Sherlock had no _right_ to use his birthday against him, as a means to show Greg how little use he is as a friend. Truthfully, he wishes he could simply not give his brother the Christmas present, but has no wish to make himself look even worse in front of Greg.

There is a terribly awkward silence, then Sherlock snaps, “a walk, John.”

John nods, once, looking apologetically at Greg. Frozen with inaction for a moment, Mycroft makes for the portrait hole just after the younger boys, muttering an excuse about not feeling too well.

Greg’s hand on his arm is a shock. “Wait, please –” mumbles Greg. “Mycroft –”

Greg’s voice is almost unbearably gentle. He feels it from his head to his toes, a wish to get _away._  He wrenches his arm from Greg’s grasp, and Greg recoils as if burned.

“Sorry – I’m sorry –” gasps Greg.

Mycroft takes two steps towards the portrait hole, and freezes again as Greg speaks.

“Wait – just – why didn’t you _tell_ me it was your birthday?” asks Greg, words tumbling over one another. “I made you go to London, using the bloody Floo network which makes you sick, and hang out alone for hours – and meet my great-aunt – and you felt so sick all evening –”

“You did not _make_  me,” says Mycroft, ashamed to hear his voice shake a little. He tries to stamp out the obvious weakness. “You _invited_ me.” He is not looking at Greg, eyes fixed on the portrait hole instead. He isn’t sure what else he can say. Above all it is imperative that Greg not understand the truth: this was his most treasured birthday, the only one he can remember truly _enjoying._

“But you – you should’ve told me,” says Greg, voice small. “I thought we’re – I mean – we’re mates aren’t we? Now? I know I’m just a thick half-breed Gryffindor, but you’re not – you don’t care about all that stuff, do you? Why didn’t you – I mean, why _couldn’t_ you tell me it was your birthday?”

“I didn’t particularly think it mattered. Would matter,” Mycroft says quietly, aware that he is not making his point clear. He knows he must sound terribly self-pitying when he adds, “it does not usually matter.”

Greg doesn’t say anything. Mycroft’s heart feels caged in his chest.

Greg’s hand finds Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft’s heart contracts painfully when he feels that just the edge of Greg’s thumb is touching the skin of his neck. “Matters to me, alright?” says Greg roughly, squeezing his shoulder awkwardly. “Got it memorised now. For next year.”

Mycroft closes his eyes for a few seconds, and Greg removes his hand.

“Right,” says Mycroft. He hesitates. “And your birthday is…?”

“Fifth of September,” mumbles Greg. “So.” He sounds embarrassed.

“Right,” repeats Mycroft, inwardly cursing the fact that he seems to have lost all ability to make use of his perfectly serviceable and wide-ranging vocabulary.

“D’you want –” starts Greg, then clears his throat. “Fancy a Butterbeer?”

Mycroft glances at him obliquely, about to refuse; but Greg’s expression is strangely anguished, brows drawn down, biting his bottom lip. Mycroft relents. “That would be – yes,” he says awkwardly.

Greg’s relief is palpable. “Right. Cool. Okay.” He flaps a hand at the armchairs in front of the fire, already heading for the stairs to the dormitories. “You know the drill.”

The armchair is warm and comfortable, and Mycroft settles in. He finds himself exhausted after the tide of emotion that had gripped him. He sighs and puts a hand over his eyes for a moment.

Perhaps it’s the relief after the tension of lunch, but they finish their first Butterbeer rather quickly. Greg passes him another, and Mycroft flicks away the caps with his wand. They clink and take sips. A warm wave of contentment and calm washes over Mycroft, and he stretches his feet towards the fire.

“Sure you don’t want that Christmas jumper?” twinkles Greg. “Get more comfortable?”

Mycroft looks askance at him. “Wearing a hideous jumper would certainly not put me at my ease, Gregory.”

Greg snorts. “‘Gregory’. You sound like my great-aunt again.”

_“Grégoire. Toutes mes excuses.”_

Startled, Greg goes red. “You speak French.”

Mycroft raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “A little,” he lies.

Greg seems to recognise this modesty for what it is. He runs a hand through his bright silver hair, looking at Mycroft from under his eyelashes. “Brilliant,” he mumbles sarcastically. “So that means you heard and understood everything my great-aunt was saying the other day.”

“Er.” It’s Mycroft’s turn to blush. He can feel it creeping over his cheeks. “No – not really –”

“Argh,” groans Greg, putting both hands over his face. After a moment he opens his fingers and looks between them, deep brown eyes darting over Mycroft’s flushed face. “For someone who’s going to be Minister of Magic, you’re pretty shit at lying.”

Mycroft glares at the other boy. He is normally excellent at remaining impassive. “The Butterbeer,” he mutters crossly.

Greg fists both hands in his hair, then starts to laugh. “Crap, Mycroft, I’m sorry – I don’t know what she was on about –”

Mycroft hears it like an echo: _mais lui, c'est la seule chose dont tu as parlé pendant le dejeuner._ He shakes his head slightly, and looks into the fire. “It was nothing.”

_Il n'est pas mon copain, Tante Mae, je t'ai dit._

Greg is watching him again, Mycroft can feel it. “What other languages do you speak?” asks the Gryffindor. “Just so I know.”

Mycroft omits the Latin and Greek his Classics tutor schooled him in from a young age. “Spanish, Italian, Russian,” he murmurs uncomfortably, taking a gulp of Butterbeer. His second bottle is emptying fast. There’s a short pause. Awkwardly, Mycroft fills it. “I should like to learn Japanese and Mandarin Chinese once school is over. The alphabets will be complementary.”

“Bloody hell, Mycroft,” smiles Greg. “That’s incredible.”

Mycroft half-shrugs. He would rather concentrate on Greg. “Your great-aunt taught you French?”

“No – well –” Greg tips his head to the side and balances his bottle on the arm of the chair. “My Mum used to speak it to Emma and me at home. Y’know, to give us a start on learning it. When she died, Dad asked Aunt Mae to keep speaking it to us. He doesn’t, so.” Greg looks intently at the bottle on the arm of his chair, then picks it up and drains it. “Another?” he holds one out.

“You’re bilingual, then?” asks Mycroft, taking it. This time, Greg pops the caps.

“Yeah – well, yeah, I s’pose so,” shrugs Greg. There’s a slightly awkward pause. “You don’t speak Parseltongue then?” asks Greg cheekily, eyes crinkling. “Slytherin Head Boy.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes at him. “Appropriate though that would be,” he says crisply, “no.”

“You speak kitten though,” grins Greg, and Mycroft throws a Butterbeer bottle cap at him. “Hey!” says Greg indignantly. He squirms in his chair then reaches out a leg and pretends to kick Mycroft’s shin, a gentle tap of toes that feels more like a caress. “Don’t take it out on me, just because you love sweet little fluffy kittens.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “I could have been cursing it, for all you know.”

Greg snorts. “You’re really going to have to work on that lying, Mycroft Holmes.” He takes a gulp of Butterbeer. “You realise it’s going to harm your image, having a Gryffindor Quidditch player as your mate. You’ll have to be extra scary this term to make up for it.”

Mycroft fights the urge to raise his eyebrows, staring into the snapping, twisting flames. Honestly, he isn’t sure whether he’d expected Greg to acknowledge him as a friend during term time. On balance, he supposes he had expected things to return to normal. His head feels light, as though he is floating. Butterbeer, he reminds himself.

“Hey,” says Greg gently, poking Mycroft with his toe in the same place as last time. Mycroft catches his breath silently and glances up to the other boy’s dark brown eyes. “Penny for ’em.”

Mycroft tips his head and raises an eyebrow.

“Oh – right – um, ‘a penny for your thoughts’. It’s like saying, ‘I’ll pay you a Knut if you tell me what you’re thinking about’.”

Mycroft raises the other eyebrow too, but can’t help a small smile. He sighs. “I was simply thinking about how much there will be to do this term.”

Greg groans and stretches. “Don’t think about that now. ’S’Christmas.” He yawns. “D’you fancy playing chess or something?”

Mycroft glances over at the set by the window. “I understood that you are not particularly enamoured of Wizarding Chess.”

Greg flicks his wand lazily and the set levitates towards them, setting itself up on the coffee table, which Greg draws more precisely between them. “’M’not. But it’s traditional to play games on Christmas.”

Mycroft glances up at the other boy through his lashes, then hesitates. “I could – when we were younger, Sherlock did not enjoy the violence of chess either. So I –” he waves his wand over the board. “There. You play white. Take my first pawn.”

Mycroft can see Greg’s reluctance as he directs his piece forward to the centre of the board. Mycroft sends his own black pawn to meet it, and waits for Greg to take the piece. The silver-haired boy visibly flinches as he instructs the pawn forward – but the small white soldier simply points the other one off the board with a stern finger, making shooing motions behind him as he goes. He then steps into the vacated space and gives a cheeky wave after the dejected black pawn, who sits down grumpily on the coffee table at the edge of the board. Greg leans in and stares at the small soldier, who has taken a tiny sandwich from under his helmet and is chewing morosely as he watches the game.

Greg looks up at Mycroft, face lit with a beaming grin. Mycroft swallows hard. “This is amazing, Mycroft, it’s perfect! They’re not beating each other to a pulp any more.”

Mycroft flushes and shrugs. “It’s nothing,” he murmurs. He takes refuge in finishing his third Butterbeer, and Greg hands him another, cracking open a new one for himself, too.

“Must admit,” adds Greg musingly, “’M surprised _Sherlock’s_  the one who hated the violence.” His brows draw down a little.

Mycroft moves another pawn forward. He half-shakes his head. “Sherlock is very soft-hearted,” he says quietly. He can’t help the sadness that seems to have crept into his voice.

“Really,” says Greg, and his voice sounds a little hard. “Not particularly nice to you though, is he.”

Mycroft bites his bottom lip, but he can’t help defending his brother. “He is – Sherlock believes –” he sighs. “It is difficult to explain to someone who does not come from our background. But as the eldest child, I have always been treated as – as an heir. Sherlock is much younger – our parents do not always behave as though…” he trails off. “Sherlock believes that they are hardly interested in him.” He rubs a hand over his eyes. “He rebels against their influence. He does not understand that being the younger brother accords him freedoms I can never have. He thinks that those freedoms are entirely due to his own rebellious efforts, rather than because our parents are –” he swallows and smoothes his long fingers over the crackled leather arm of the chair, “– preoccupied with me. With plans for my future.” He glances up to Greg. The other boy’s dark brown eyes are soft. Mycroft clears his throat. “Once I am employed at the Ministry – once it has become clear to my father that I do not intend to follow the path he has laid out – I fear that Sherlock may understand more about the kind of pressure our parents can bring to bear.” He sighs and twists his mouth wryly. “My apologies. That was –” he gestures imprecisely with his hand. _Dull,_ mutters his brain.

Greg shakes his head impatiently. “Don’t apologise.” He sighs. “Merlin, I could’ve strangled Sherlock at dinner. ’S’for the best if you tell me this stuff,” he smiles. “Might prevent a murder.”

Mycroft can’t help a small dry smile. “That would certainly cease your plans to become an Auror.”

“Ha.” Greg sips his Butterbeer and prompts his bishop forward to take Mycroft’s pawn. The small soldier goes to sit next to her friend, and they start sharing what looks like a tiny hip flask. Greg grins. “They’ve got booze.”

Mycroft groans. “I am not looking forward to leaving Gryffindor Tower later. The Fat Lady and Violet will be…” he shakes his head.

Greg snorts. __“_ Surely_ they’ll just’ve passed out by then,” he giggles. “They’ve been drinking for hours.”

“So have we,” says Mycroft, finishing his Butterbeer and putting the bottle carefully down on the hearth.

“Yeah, but _Butterbeer,”_ says Greg. “If it’s got any alcohol in, it’s not much. They’re on the hard stuff. Butterbeer just leaves you feeling all happy and sleepy.” He smiles at Mycroft, eyes warm.

“It is certainly a very different experience to brandy and champagne,” says Mycroft. “My parents’ parties,” he says, answering Greg’s questioning tilt of the head.

“Right.” He grins. “Yeah, definitely different from a pub crawl with my Muggle mates. _That_ beer doesn’t leave you quite so cheery the morning after.”

The chess game progresses, until there are lines of miniature chess pieces relaxing on the coffee table on either side of the board. “Mycroft, look,” says Greg, sounding charmed. “These two are playing chess.” Indeed, two of the pawns are playing a minuscule game of chess, stretched out on their stomachs on the tabletop. When Mycroft’s knight finally removes Greg’s queen from the board, he dismounts, kneels down and holds out his hand in supplication. She agrees to dance, and he waltzes her delicately across the chequered board.

Greg’s eyes crinkle as he watches them. He stands up suddenly. “Come on, teach me to dance,” he says lightly. “Like we were saying earlier. I’ll help you learn to skate.”

Mycroft’s breath catches in his throat. He knots his fingers together in his lap. “Truly, Greg, I do not – I am not particularly –” he stumbles over the words.

But Greg moves to the open area of carpet and beckons with both hands. “Come on – come _on,”_ he pleads.

Mycroft looks at him hopelessly. Reluctantly, he stands up and joins him.

They stand opposite one another, and there is a rather awkward pause. Mycroft tries to remember how his first dance teacher introduced him to the waltz. He glances at Greg’s face; his eyes are bright and curious, but he is biting his bottom lip – perhaps a little nervous. Mycroft takes a deep breath.

“You have not danced before?”

Greg shakes his head. “Not properly. Clubs and stuff.”

Mycroft gives a nod. “A standard waltz then. It is a slow dance –” he sees out of the corner of his eye the flick of Greg’s eyebrows and quick grin, and feels himself start to turn red. “I – I mean – the tempo is slow, and it is therefore easy to learn.” He clears his throat. “First of all, it might be best to try the steps side by side, so that you can observe properly.”

He lines himself up next to Greg and reluctantly holds out a hand, high, near their shoulders. “Sorry –” he mutters, gesturing with his other hand. “This was how I was taught, so – we probably do not need to – if you don’t –”

Greg puts his hand in Mycroft’s. “Stop apologising,” he says firmly.

Mycroft clears his throat. His brain reels with the feeling of Greg’s fingers curled around his own.

“The dance is in 3/4 time, which means that we count three for the steps,” he says as calmly as he can manage. “Follow what I do.” He leads Greg forward very slowly – a step on one, a step to the side on two, and closing the movement on three. They repeat several times, and soon Greg is following him exactly. They both count out loud, and come to a stop when they get close to the wall hangings.

Greg turns to look at him expectantly.

Mycroft feels like an idiot holding Greg’s hand high by their shoulders. He hurries to explain. “And now we do the same in reverse.” He shows Greg the steps back, counting all the while, and the other boy picks it up by the time they are back where they started. They do it a couple more times, increasing slowly to normal pace.

Self-consciously, Mycroft drops Greg’s hand, biting his bottom lip to stifle another apology. Greg turns to him, eyes dark and soft. “What now?”

“Now –” Mycroft clears his throat. He turns to face the other boy but avoids his eyes. “We put it together.” He takes a half-step closer, heart pounding in his chest. “My apologies, I learned to lead so I may be rather rusty,” he mutters. “Sorry – may I –” he gestures to Greg’s arms.

“Yeah, ’course,” says Greg, putting his hands trustingly into Mycroft’s.

Mycroft’s spine tingles with the feeling of both Greg’s hands in his own. He arranges Greg’s arms, high, parallel with his shoulders. “This is the leading position,” he tells him. “I’ll just –” he flicks his eyes to Greg’s for permission.

The silver-haired boy gives him an encouraging grin, eyes wide and dark.

Mycroft fits his arm over Greg’s, and his hand into his cupped palm. He controls his breathing and avoids Greg’s eyes.

“Why am I leading?” asks Greg amusedly. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Well, you have to learn to lead,” says Mycroft patiently. “Otherwise your partner for – for the ball will be confused.” He swallows down the lump of bitter jealousy filling his throat.

Greg hesitates. His voice sounds strange, but Mycroft can’t look at him, not with their hands joined like this, with the warmth of Greg’s strong arm beneath his own. “What if it’s two boys dancing?”

“Well I suppose they would decide who should lead,” says Mycroft distractedly. “Right,” he adds more firmly. “You remember the steps? No – wait –” he says sharply. “You are allowing your arms to drop. And your spine should be straighter.” Greg readjusts his stance and Mycroft gives a terse nod.

At first they make a lot of mistakes. Greg steps on Mycroft’s toes several times, and Mycroft has to apologise when he accidentally starts trying to lead and steps on Greg’s. After that he kicks off his shoes too, so that at least he and Greg are on an even footing.

Slowly, it improves. Greg keeps forgetting to keep his posture sharp and his arms up, but before too long he is steering Mycroft confidently backwards and forwards, as they count in sets of four.

Mycroft’s stomach flutters and he bites his bottom lip. So this is what it feels like to be led. He blushes at the treacherous thought, and takes back his arms when they next come to a halt.

“So,” he says. “That is the waltz. Well done.” He takes a step towards his armchair again.

“You want to stop?” asks Greg. He sounds disappointed. “We were just getting good. Don’t I need to learn to turn you and stuff?” Mycroft turns around and Greg grins at him. “And dip you down to the floor.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Hardly necessary.” Regretting his weakness, he steps back closer to Greg. “You are right that perhaps you should learn to turn, however.”

Greg gives him a blinding smile. “Great. Hang on.” He wrestles off the hideous jumper. Mycroft’s eyes widen at the flash of flat, tanned stomach he gets as Greg pulls the garment over his head. He looks quickly away, lest he get caught staring.

Greg steps up to him and takes his hands, begins arranging their arms. When he is done, he looks up into Mycroft’s eyes. “Yes?” he asks softly.

Mycroft nods, once. “Yes.”

Greg begins to steer them in the dance once again, counting under his breath. “Bet you’re glad not to have to look at that reindeer any more.”

Mycroft gives a little huff of amusement. “Its crossed eyes staring up at me were somewhat disconcerting.”

Greg giggles. “Sorry. I can put partially-naked Winnie the Pooh on instead when I get cold again.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“Aren’t you boiling?” asks Greg. “Good exercise, this.”

“Not particularly.” Mycroft counts them through the four-two-three then holds still. “So for the turn –” he demonstrates the angle of step and turn, and they start trying it, socked toes meeting in a few abortive efforts before they get it right.

Greg laughs as they start turning every four sets, completing full circuits of the space they have available. “This is brilliant,” he grins up at Mycroft, dark eyes crinkled and happy.

Mycroft’s heart turns over in his chest, and he breaks the dance at the next opportunity, giving a bland smile. “Well done,” he says. “I need another drink.” He heads firmly back to his armchair, curling his legs into it and opening two more Butterbeers, placing Greg’s on the coffee table in front of his chair.

Slowly, Greg comes to join him, and takes a sip. He tucks his feet up on the seat. “Thanks for teaching me,” he smiles gently. “We’ll have to keep practicing though. Or I’ll forget.”

Mycroft gives a non-committal half-shrug and an _mmm._

“Only thing is,” says Greg, “it’s quite a – a sedate dance, isn’t it? And you’re quite far from your partner.”

“In practice it can be more –” Mycroft hesitates. The word _intimate_ hovers on the tip of his tongue. “Um – closer,” he finishes lamely.

“Oh, right,” says Greg awkwardly. “Good.”

Mycroft stares into the dancing flames in the grate. Sherlock’s words come back to him with startling clarity: _the rumours from last term did suggest that you were far more than friends with Lara Urquart._

“Don’t think I’m going to need dinner,” yawns Greg, looking at his watch. “Might eat some more chocolate money though,” he grins. “Thanks.”

Mycroft gives him a quick, tight smile. “And thank you for my present.” His fingers stroke over the jacket pocket where he placed it earlier. “I should –” he gestures to the portrait hole.

Greg yawns again, eyes dark in the flickering firelight. “Y’welcome to stay here if you can’t be bothered,” he says. “I mean – there’s room in my dorm, or the whole sixth-year one is free.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Thank you. But I should go.” He gets up and finds his shoes, where he had kicked them aside during the dance lesson. “I will see you tomorrow?” The hint of a question, unsure whether Greg will be visiting his family in London.

“Yeah – yeah, ’course,” smiles Greg, walking with him to the portrait hole. “See you at breakfast, maybe? Nine?”

Mycroft nods and is about to reach for the portrait hole when Greg steps forward and wraps his arms around him in a hug. “I had a great Christmas,” he says, breath warm at the base of Mycroft’s neck. “Thank you.”

For a few moments, Mycroft’s mind is blank and he is simply unsure how to react. And then some kind of instinct kicks in. Tentatively, he wraps his arms around Greg’s shoulders. “I too – thank you,” he murmurs, indistinctly. Afraid of behaving in an unwelcome way, he releases Greg and steps back. He knows his cheeks are an unattractive red, and he dips his head as he opens the portrait hole. “Goodnight.”

“Oh no, Vi,” burbles the Fat Lady in dismay as he makes his way down the corridor. “Look. Not even on _Chrishmash?”_


	11. Chapter 11

It takes Mycroft a long time to wake up fully. His sleep is fractured, unremembered dreams and nightmares chasing themselves through his brain throughout the night. For a while, he hangs between sleeping and waking, trying to pry his eyes open and falling back into the grasping arms of an unsatisfactory doze. It’s only when he manages to reach out a heavy hand and pick up his watch that he realises he’s late – it’s nine forty-five already and Greg must be wondering where he is.

He sits bolt-upright and throws back the covers, welcoming the glacial temperature of the room to banish the heavy exhaustion still dragging at his limbs. He has the quickest shower possible and throws on his black jeans, a soft white shirt and the green jumper. His robes will cover the less-than-elegant outfit. He makes sure he has his wand, grabs his school bag and clatters hastily down the dormitory stairs into the common room –

– where he sees Greg, attention focused outside the sturdy wooden door, which he holds open –

“Yeah, thanks – no that’s great – no worries, cheers –” Greg shuts the door and visibly jumps when he sees Mycroft at the bottom of the stairs. “Bloody hell, Mycroft –”

Mycroft looks at him quizzically, and Greg gestures awkwardly over his shoulder with his thumb. “Little Marcus Hammett let me in –” he runs a hand through his hair. “Just wanted to see if you were okay, didn’t see you at breakfast and I thought we said –”

Mycroft nods, taking a couple of impulsive steps forward. “Yes – I – I apologise, I overslept – I had not set an alarm, it is usually unnecessary, I wake early –”

Greg steps forward to meet him, a gentle soothing gesture carved out in the air by his expressive hand. “No, honestly, it’s cool, I know you don’t sleep enough! Just wanted to check you were alright.” He smiles gently, long dark eyelashes sweeping his cheeks. “’S’only Boxing Day anyway! You ought to be in bed for a few hours yet.”

Mycroft prays he does not blush. He looks away, trying to stop watching those dark, mesmerising eyelashes. Greg’s eyes, open, are dark pools of twinkling, expressive fun; eyes cast down, his eyelids are surprisingly heavy, smudged and languid-looking. Mycroft longs to sketch them. His fingers twitch with the innate knowledge of the precise movements needed to capture and record.

His eyes catch on his robes, discarded carelessly over the back of the nearest armchair the day before. Instantly he draws in on himself, uncomfortable in his unaccustomedly slovenly outfit, and without the armour of robes. Worse, he can feel Greg watching him with a penetrating gaze.

“So I figured you probably wanted to get a bit of work done this morning?” asks Greg, stepping over to the long desk set along the wall of Slytherin Dungeon. He unzips his backpack.

“I should,” murmurs Mycroft, still looking at his robes, a few steps away. Distractedly, he glances to Greg.

“Well, I thought if you want to we could work here for a while?” Greg looks up, shooting him a smile. He holds out the flask. “I brought tea. And snacks.” He unpacks a large napkin full of croissants and bread rolls, as well as apples and pears. “Well, makeshift breakfast, for you,” he smiles.

Mycroft looks at this haul, then up to Greg’s expectant, open face. “I – thank you,” he says, and his voice sounds strangely gentle to his own ears. “That would be…” he turns and puts his school bag down on the desk too. “A cup of tea would be most welcome.”

The first sip is delightful, and Mycroft can’t help a pleased hum in his throat. It brings another beaming smile from Greg, who firmly offers him a croissant. Meekly, Mycroft takes it.

Greg looks around. “Never been in here before.”

“I remember you saying so.”

“Not exactly cheery, is it?”

Mycroft looks around at the dark and forbidding dungeon. The only light relief is provided by the green and silver banners on the walls, which in truth are not particularly attractive. He looks back at Greg, who’s grinning at him, eyes dancing. Mycroft can’t help smiling back, and Greg chuckles before taking a seat at the long desk and starting to unpack books, notebooks, pens and parchment from his backpack.

“Think I’m finally ready to start writing up the last draft of my Charms essay,” he says. “Got it all written out.” He taps a notebook. “Unfortunately that means bloody parchment,” he says lightly, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, wizards.”

_“You_ are a wizard, _Grégoire,”_  says Mycroft long-sufferingly. “You’re just like the rest of us.” He settles himself at the desk and pushes his tea and croissant to one side, unpacking his own study materials.

Greg kicks him gently under the desk. “You’re all ridiculous.”

_“You’re_ ridiculous,” mumbles Mycroft through a sip of tea. It’s unthinking, a fond retort as he starts flicking to the article of _The Practical Potioneer_ he needs.

“Bloody Luddites the lot of you,” mutters Greg, poking Mycroft’s leg with his toe. Without looking up, Mycroft knows that Greg has pushed off his shoes, and that he is smiling as he speaks.

“You are deliberately using Muggle terms with which I am not familiar,” he returns haughtily, highlighting a useful quotation on the first page of the article.

“Pfff, as if you, the smartest boy in school, couldn’t look it up,” grins Greg mock-exasperatedly, sharpening his quill. “Although you know what would be quicker? Googling it. On your phone. On the Internet.”

“Sounds ghastly,” says Mycroft absently, trying not to allow his cheeks to turn pink at Greg’s praise. His eyes are fixed on the article, but he’s not absorbing what he’s reading.

“Ugh, you’re useless,” says Greg. “And here I’d hoped our new young Minister for Magic would open up the wizarding world to new technology.” He chuckles. “Well. _Any_ technology, really. It’s not even that bloody new.”

_“Grégoire,_ I cannot understand why you are referring to me as Minister for Magic –” Mycroft occupies himself by pushing an ink cartridge into his new fountain pen. He looks up and finds Greg watching his long fingers at their task. The other boy glances quickly away.

“Come off it, Myc, you know you will be.”

_“Myc?”_ his voice drips with disdain. “Surely not.”

Greg giggles. “If you can call me _Grégoire_ –”

“I shall never do so again,” snaps Mycroft hastily. “Please not _Myc.”_

“Shame,” smiles Greg. “I like it.”

“Urgh.”

“Fine then.” Greg sounds huffy, but he shoots Mycroft a smile to let him know he’s only teasing. There’s a pause.

“I do not want to be Minister for Magic,” says Mycroft diffidently, highlighting another quotation.

“No? Well not immediately, obviously,” returns Greg, looking up. “I’m only messing.”

“Not at all,” says Mycroft quietly. “The idea of the press attention, the public engagements – it is profoundly unappealing.”

Greg leans his head on his hand. “What then?”

Mycroft half-shrugs. “An advisor of some sort, I suppose.”

“And your parents? What do they want you to do?”

A wry twist of the lips. “The highest job, of course.”

“Hmm,” says Greg. “Well once you’re supporting yourself, you don’t have to listen to them.”

Mycroft gives a nod. “True.”

For a few minutes, they both bend over their tasks, then Greg shifts in his seat. “How’s the fountain pen?”

Mycroft glances up at him and gives a short, unfeigned smile. “Very good.”

Greg grins in return. “Great.”

There’s a pause, where neither of them seems to be able to look away.

Greg clears his throat. “Another cuppa?”

“Mmm, please,” returns Mycroft quickly, pushing his cup over. “Thank you,” he adds, a little stiffly.

Greg passes it back to him, and their fingers brush. Mycroft catches a silent breath in the back of his throat.

A few minutes go by, but Mycroft is not managing to achieve his usual state of concentration. “Apple?” he offers, holding one out to Greg.

“Mmm, thanks,” Greg smiles. Their fingers meet again around the piece of fruit.

Reluctantly, Mycroft withdraws his hand and takes a pear, bites cautiously into it in case of juice. Luckily it’s not too ripe.

“So if you’re going to be some kind of advisor,” says Greg, “you’ll probably have to do a fair bit of meeting with Muggle governments and stuff.”

“I should welcome it,” says Mycroft, picking up his pen and correcting a small mistake.

“Well then, you’re really going to have to learn more about the tech stuff.”

Mycroft gives him a shy smile. “Of course. The wizarding world must be more in step with the Muggle one.”

Greg grins unrestrainedly. “You were just winding me up before.”

“Yes.”

“You know what Luddite means, don’t you.”

“I confess that I do.”

“You’ve probably used the internet loads, haven’t you? You’ve probably got a mobile at home.”

“I am afraid not. Not something that our parents would condone.”

Greg huffs a laugh. “Okay, well at least it wasn’t all fiction.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I understood last night that you think me a terrible liar.”

“Maybe you were right. Maybe it _was_  just the Butterbeer.” Greg takes a sip of tea. “I’ll have to watch you, Mycroft Holmes.”

There is something in his voice that makes Mycroft’s stomach flip. Flustered, he looks down at his parchment, then buries his nose in his teacup.

“I could teach you how to use the internet, if you want,” says Greg casually. “It’d have to be in summer, I guess, but you could come over to my Dad’s and use my laptop and stuff. Get a feel for it.”

Mycroft looks up at him through his eyelashes, gauging sincerity. “I – thank you,” he says, nonplussed. “I am sure that would be – most useful.”

There is a pause.

“You realise,” says Mycroft, “that once the wizarding world is exposed to the internet, there will probably need to be an entire new sub-department of Aurors to deal with the inevitable criminal fallout.”

Greg shifts in his chair and leans his head on his hand. “Merlin,” he says wonderingly. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Mycroft stares down at the page of the journal he is currently perusing, and sighs quietly. He simply has no interest in this today.

Greg shifts in his chair, and Mycroft glances up to see that he is looking at him sympathetically. “You finding it hard to concentrate too?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft frustratedly, putting the cap on his fountain pen and dropping it onto the parchment. He frowns slightly. “It is most unusual.”

Greg grins at him. “We all have off days.” He hesitates. “We should have a practice at dancing. See if I’ve forgotten it all since last night.” He doesn’t quite meet Mycroft’s eyes.

Perhaps it is something about the caution with which Greg suggests it, but Mycroft finds himself getting to his feet. “Very well.”

Greg is out of his chair and beside him in a moment. “Don’t tell me,” he says, putting up a forestalling hand. “Let me see if I can remember.”

His hands on Mycroft’s arms are strong and confident, sliding them into place along his own, clasping their hands together. He corrects his own posture before Mycroft can, catching his eye with a small grin. “Yeah?”

Mycroft gives a satisfied nod. “Very good.”

Greg beams. He counts under his breath and begins to steer Mycroft backwards. “Not such an idiot after all.”

“I have never called you an idiot, _Gré–_  Greg,” says Mycroft.

Greg’s eyelashes sweep down, and then he looks up with a smile. “You can call me _Grégoire_ if you really like it,” he murmurs.

Mycroft shakes his head, acquiescing gracefully to Greg’s strong grasp as he turns them to avoid an armchair. “It is not worth the price of being called _Myc.”_

Greg giggles. “Don’t know why you don’t like it. And everyone must feel like idiots to you.”

“Oh – certainly not,” says Mycroft, flustered, caught off balance by the change of topic.

His hesitation makes Greg smile. “I knew it.”

“Not you, anyway,” mutters Mycroft, keeping his gaze fixed severely over Greg’s left shoulder. Embarrassment engulfs him, and he adds, “your marks are remarkably good, for a Gryffindor.” His tone is haughty, but he hopes that Greg can see the dry smile at the edges of his lips.

“Bastard,” says Greg, squeezing his hand. The fondness in his voice is overwhelming, and Mycroft tries hard not to think about it too much.

Greg guides them to a halt, and they allow their arms to fall, although somehow neither of them remembers to let go of each other’s hands. “So?” asks Greg, expectantly. “How was it?”

“On the whole, acceptable,” says Mycroft, fighting to keep his voice even. Greg’s face falls a little. “You are still forgetting your posture sometimes, especially when executing an unexpected turn.” He sees the way Greg’s lips have drawn together in a hint of a pout. “But you are voluntarily correcting your posture afterwards,” he adds hurriedly. “Without prompting.”

Greg smiles up at him. “I’ll take ‘acceptable’ for now, I suppose. We’ll just have to practice some more.”

Mycroft’s heart turns over lazily in his chest.

“Now,” says Greg cheerfully, “you have to teach me how to dip – someone.”

“Oh –” Mycroft pauses and feels his cheeks start to turn red.

“Go on, I bet you know how,” adds Greg, eyes wide and dark. “Don’t you?”

Mycroft blinks. “Yes,” he says, reluctantly.

“Great –” Greg starts to lift their hands again, but Mycroft resists, drawing his own away. Even as he does it, his skin mourns the contact with Greg’s.

“It is not particularly easy,” he says more brusquely than he had intended. “And especially not with a partner who is taller and –” he catches a breath, “– and – heavier than you.”

Greg looks at him as if he’s mad. “Mycroft – okay, I get the taller thing, but surely there are ways to deal with that, and as for – you do know there’s absolutely _no_ way you’re heavier than me, right?” he gives a little huff of amusement. “Not trying to be a twat but I’m fairly strong. You know, Quidditch practice all the time, manual job every summer…” he shrugs. “Not a bodybuilder or anything, but y’know.” Mycroft bites his bottom lip, and Greg grabs his hands again. “We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. I’m sorry. Not trying to – y’know – push it.” He starts to form their arms into the correct shape to dance again. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Mycroft feels guilt sinking heavily in the pit of his stomach. He can see it now – Greg ending a waltz at the summer ball with a slim young beauty, dipping her to the floor. In his mind’s eye, her features are those of Lara Urquart. Even if he doesn’t use it for the ball, it would surely be helpful to him in the future. He tortures himself with the thought that Greg’s future wedding dance will certainly be well-choreographed. Biting his bottom lip again, he pulls abruptly out of Greg’s arms. “My apologies,” he says with brittle brightness. “We should try it.” He turns away and pulls the cushions off the armchairs. “Perhaps I can make a sort of –” he lays them on the floor, then takes the seat cushions out of the chairs and adds them to the pile. “Break my inevitable fall,” he adds sardonically, attempting to find their old humorous tone again. “There.”

Greg steps a little closer and looks up at him, deep brown gaze searching. “Are you sure?”

Mycroft nods, not meeting his eyes. “Certainly,” he says, lightly. “Now. The most important thing to note is that it often _looks_  as though the leading partner’s hand is in the small of the other’s back when completing a dip. This is an illusion deliberately created by the posture of experienced dance partners. In fact, your hand must remain as high on my back as it has been during the dance. Since I am a little taller, you may even need to raise it slightly as we enter the dip.”

Greg nods, eyes wide and serious. “Okay.”

“Secondly, there is a specific variation to the turn step which allows us both to achieve the best and safest stance at which to attempt the dip.”

“Okay,” repeats Greg, reaching out to take Mycroft’s arms again. “Show me.”

Mycroft had been prepared, in theory, for how much closer they would get during the dip, but the proximity of Greg’s right leg, almost between his own, the closeness of his chest, the harder grip on his hand and his back – they are overwhelming.

“So this is the position exactly?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Shall I start letting you down?”

Mycroft smirks. “I hope not.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Not like that.”

Mycroft flicks his eyes to their joined hands. “Our hands must still be as high and as clearly placed as at all other times during the dance. They have fallen a little, and you are pulling them towards your chest.”

Greg grimaces. “I just don’t want to drop you.”

“Do not drop me then.”

“Helpful advice, Mycroft, thanks, yeah.”

Mycroft’s heart pounds and his stomach crawls with shame as the other boy starts to tentatively lower him. Greg must already be able to feel the strain of all the weight – he tenses his stomach muscles as they start to move past his natural centre of gravity.

“How much further should I go?” asks Greg, biting his bottom lip.

“Oh, that will do,” says Mycroft, as casually as he can manage. “Well done.”

“Really?” asks Greg, with a small frown, not pulling him up. “Doesn’t seem very far –”

“That is fine,” says Mycroft, tensely.

Greg hesitates, then grins. “Really?” he says again. He lowers Mycroft a couple more inches. “This is good though.”

Mycroft glares at him.

“Or this,” adds Greg, tipping Mycroft a little further back. He is careful to hold him over the armchair cushions. “Or this.”

Mycroft involuntarily clutches harder at Greg’s hand and arm. “Greg –”

Greg smiles softly. “Or this –”

“Stop it,” snaps Mycroft panickily. “You’re probably hurting your back –”

“I’m not,” says Greg, rolling his eyes. “Honestly Mycroft, you worry way too much –”

“Who made you the dance expert now?”

“No-one, but you massively overestimate how heavy you are,” snorts Greg. “Honestly, if I can carry huge sacks of potting manure around every summer, I think I can –”

“Oh, well that is flattering,” snaps Mycroft, and suddenly Greg is starting to giggle, and Mycroft can’t resist it either, and with the loss of taut, supporting posture Mycroft finds himself falling onto the cushions, only his brain hasn’t quite got the message yet to let go of Greg’s hand, and so he is dragged down too –

Mycroft rolls to the side as Greg flops onto the cushions next to him, and they’re both giggling so hard they can barely breathe.

“I knew you’d drop me,” wheezes Mycroft after a minute or so.

“That was your fault!” laughs Greg. “You – you –” he gestures to them both with his free hand. Somehow neither of them has let go of the other’s hand after they fell.

“You’re the one who –” but neither of them can stop laughing, setting one another off repeatedly, and now their fingers are intertwined instead of just clutched together, and Mycroft tells himself he does not notice because he is laughing so hard, but his heart is pounding harder than he has ever felt before.

Slowly, they manage to stop laughing, drawing shaky breaths. Mycroft’s chest feels tight, and there are tears standing in the corners of his eyes. And suddenly, in the absence of laughter, the switch to mortification, their fingers still wound together. Mycroft wrenches his hand away and sits up.

“My apologies,” he says, as lightly as he can manage. “That will certainly require you to practice further.”

He stands up, and holds out both hands to help Greg up too, making sure they touch for only as long as is necessary. A quick oblique glance shows him Greg watching his face, biting his bottom lip.

“I should –” Greg gestures to the dormitory stairs. “I’ll just use the loo.”

Mycroft nods, bending down to pick up a cushion. Greg disappears up the stairs, and Mycroft takes a deep breath, hands over his eyes. His cheeks burn feverishly warm against the heels of his hands, skin flushed. He pulls off his green jumper, laying it over the back of the armchair as he flicks his wand to direct the cushions back to their correct places.

His concentration is broken by a dry, amused voice from the common room door. “What _has_ been going on here?”

Mycroft’s heart jolts painfully in his chest, and he has to fight hard to keep his expression neutral. Nervously, he runs one hand through his hair, tidying it. “Father,” he says, as evenly as he can. “I had not expected to see you.”

“That much is evident, Mycroft,” drawls Siger Holmes sardonically. “I believe I asked you a question.”

Mycroft adjusts a cushion, avoiding eye contact. “Charms practice merely, Father.”

His father watches him with narrowed eyes and an amused quirk of the lips. As so often in their interactions, Mycroft is reminded of a cat playing with a mouse.

Appearing to decide to accept the lie, Siger Holmes steps forward and holds out his hand to his son. Mycroft shakes it warily.

“Right, sit down please,” commands the older man. Mycroft knows his father is not pleased that he is now as tall as him. He sits calmly in one of the armchairs while his father remains standing, looking down at him haughtily. “Now, Mycroft, your mother and I are of course holding our usual New Year soirée, which will be attended by some very useful people indeed, this year.” His father’s white hair makes him look unthreatening to those who do not know him, but his eyes are pure cold grey steel. “It is imperative that you attend, since your Ministry career is now so imminent. There are people attending who will be able to facilitate certain matters, when the time is right.”

Mycroft sits, prim and straight, in his chair. He clears his throat and chooses his words with care. “As I mentioned to you and Mother in my letter before the holiday, I believe it is wiser for me to spend this time using the school library and ensuring that my studies are completed satisfactorily.” He plays with his wand, which he is still absentmindedly holding. “My career at the Ministry does, after all, rely on excellent final marks.”

Siger Holmes gives a short bark of sardonic laughter. “You know perfectly well you will not be allowed to achieve anything less than the highest grades, Mycroft. As a Holmes, your brain is excellent and will not fail. But even were it to, I am sure that there are – ways and means.” He smirks mirthlessly at his son.

Mycroft places his hands, with as much control as he can muster, on the arms of his chair. His wand is still in his right hand. “That would not be _my_ achievement, Father,” he says quietly.

His father frowns at him, eyes cold. “The good of the family is important before everything else,” he snaps. “As I _hope_ you well know. So your mother and I will see you at New Year.”

“Unfortunately such a journey would take too long, especially in the last days of the holiday,” says Mycroft calmly. “I do apologise.”

“You have learned to Apparate, have you not?” Siger Holmes’ eyebrow flicks up. His breathing tells Mycroft that his father is becoming angry. He tenses.

“I have, but –”

_“Silencio,”_ murmurs Siger Holmes silkily. _“Expelliarmus,”_ he adds, as he sees Mycroft’s fingers twitch around his wand. Mycroft forces his hands to lie flat on the arms of the chair and takes a deep breath in through his nose, fighting the panic that having his throat magically stoppered always causes. “I assume,” says his father, and his voice is like a whip, “that you Apparated to Diagon Alley, in any case. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that, instead of accepting the birthday party we had offered our son in celebration of turning eighteen, he chose to wander around _shopping_ instead.”

Mycroft drops his eyes to the floor, still fighting the frantic beating of his heart. _Nemesis Carrow._  And he had thought he had got away without her seeing him.

“What is worse,” adds Siger Holmes, taking a few steps away and turning to look down at his son again, “we discover that you spent the day with some half-breed _Gryffindor_  and his mad old aunt.”

Mycroft is pushing himself to his feet before he knows what he is doing, but his father’s voice lashes him again. “You will sit down,” he says silkily. “Or I shall __make__ you sit down.”

The threat is not an idle one. Mycroft subsides into his armchair.

“I am appalled,” murmurs his father, “that you would risk everything we have worked for, for some – some _friendship_ –” he says it as though it is a ludicrous concept, “– with a _mongrel_ such as this.”

Mycroft’s stomach twists sickeningly. Anger rises in his stoppered throat like bile. He cannot watch his father’s face. He stares with intense concentration at the pattern on the dark green hearthrug.

His father’s voice is coaxing now. “You have been so skilled, so far, at furthering our family’s interests – something which, Merlin knows, we cannot look to our younger son for.” He twirls Mycroft’s wand between his long fingers. “We rely on you, my son.” A trace of steel creeps back into his tone as he adds, “do not waste it all on some doomed schoolboy friendship.”

Siger Holmes bends down and places Mycroft’s wand on the coffee table in front of him. Mycroft glances up and catches the traces of contempt in his father’s eyes. He dare not reach for the wand. “Now,” says his father. “Your mother and I expect you on the thirty-first. So please do not be late.” His voice changes to a horrible, forced jocularity which makes Mycroft’s skin crawl. “Quite apart from anything else, there will be _several_ young women there from good families who would be delighted to make a match with ours. So you see, it won’t all be business.” He smirks and sweeps to the door. “Until then.”

As the door closes, Mycroft stands impulsively and grabs his wand, pointing it at his throat and desperately willing the Charm to lift even though he cannot speak the counter-spell. He paces into the wider space, away from the fire, craving openness and air. But then Greg is hurrying down the stairs, _“Finite Incantatem,”_  on his lips, and Mycroft coughs, feeling the bands of suppressed panic around his chest start to loosen. His eyes feel hot and painful, and he closes them, running both hands through his hair in a jerky grasping movement.

He opens his eyes and Greg is close, in front of him, but he does not stop moving and then the silver-haired boy has his arms wrapped tightly around his chest and waist, and Mycroft is too shocked to move. He can feel shivering, and for a long, hot, shaming moment he thinks it is him, that __he__ is shaking after a confrontation with his father, and then he realises it is Greg, and a wave of the desperate need to _protect_ crashes over him and his arms close tight around Greg’s back.

In just his thin white shirt, Mycroft is terribly aware of the warmth of Greg, of the way his hands feel pressed against his back, of the softness of his ash-silver hair tucked against the side of Mycroft’s neck. His head is turned sideways, and his breath pants hotly against the base of Mycroft’s neck.

When Greg starts to pull away, Mycroft wishes he could just tighten his arms and pull him back.

But Greg’s arms shift, and one hand comes up to the side of Mycroft’s face, and Greg’s eyes are wide – so wide – and dark. His breathing is uneven and Mycroft is not sure what is happening, but Greg’s lips hesitantly form the words, “I – Mycroft –” and there is a long, breathless moment where everything seems to halt, where the only thing Mycroft can feel is Greg’s palm against his cheek and his fingertips in the hair above his ear and when Greg’s lips meet his, they are warm and soft and gentle.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been ages. Lots of personal stuff happening. I hope you like it, and thank you so much for reading and leaving me lovely comments and generally being beautiful, supportive people. xxx

Mycroft’s eyes close of their own accord and he concentrates on the overwhelming sensations occasioned by Greg’s lips against his own. His chest feels as though it is bursting, and he can’t decide whether his heart is beating dangerously slowly or terrifyingly fast. When Greg pulls back, he wishes he could follow. _Not yet,_ is all he can think. _Don’t stop yet._

And now he knows he _is_  shaking, the combined effect of the confrontation with his father and the overwhelming newness of _this_ – and Greg is biting his lip, frowning, concerned, and slipping his arm around his waist. “Are you okay?” he murmurs, but Mycroft can’t answer, somehow, and Greg guides him to the stairs, to the dormitory, to sit on the edge of his bed, and _this is better, because no-one will disturb us here, and Greg can’t be seen like this, with me._

Greg stands next to him, and his hand is on Mycroft’s shoulderblade, his back, and Mycroft lets his head hang exhaustedly. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters. “You heard – my father – I am sorry.”

Greg sits down next to him with a thump, frowning at him incredulously. _“You’re_  sorry? Mycroft, God – there I was, fucking useless the whole time –”

“There is no point challenging him –”

“– and then the – I shouldn’t have – at a time like that – I’m really sorry –”

Mycroft isn’t sure, but he’s terribly afraid that Greg means the kiss, that he’s sorry for the kiss, and he bends his head, links his hands, stares at his knees. His legs feel shaky.

Greg jumps up, goes to the door and leans on the doorframe. He waves his wand. _“Accio flask, accio cups,”_ he murmurs. He directs them to the bedside table with his wand, then shuts the door. He drops back onto the edge of the bed next to Mycroft and pours him a cup of tea. “Here.”

Mycroft takes it, skin singing briefly at the contact with Greg’s fingers. He takes a sip. “Thank you.”

Greg pours himself a cup and gulps some down. “Well, it’s not exactly that hot any more, but still,” he mumbles. There’s a silence. “You okay?”

Mycroft can feel Greg’s gaze on the side of his face. He nods. “Yes.” His grip tightens around the plastic cup of lukewarm tea. “I am simply – embarrassed that you should have heard my father’s remarks.”

Greg gives a short, tight chuckle. “Mycroft – please. You think that’d bother me? It’s a load of crap. I’m proud of my family, I know I can do magic, why would any of that get to me?”

Mycroft hesitates, but he cannot seem to stop the words. “It shows you something about – about _me_ – about my background.”

“Well, your family maybe,” says Greg, putting his cup down on the bedside table. “But not _you._ If anything it’s a credit to you and Sherlock that you’ve grown up _not_ like – that.” He gestures vaguely with one hand. “Not thinking like that.”

Mycroft absorbs these words, staring absently at his hands around the cup of tea.

“Mycroft,” says Greg suddenly, on a hurried breath in. “Please can we talk about – about what happened.” His voice is full of relief and fear, and Mycroft realises suddenly that it has cost him a lot of courage to speak these words.

He half-stands and puts his cup down on the bedside table, then returns to where he was sitting. He cannot meet Greg’s eyes, but turns to face him nonetheless. “I understand, Greg,” he murmurs. “It was – there is no need for us to discuss it –”

“Oi, no – Mycroft –” Greg’s hand is on his arm, turning him more, pulling him to sit fully on the bed. “I didn’t mean – Merlin knows I regret kissing you _when_ I did, I mean shit timing or what, but –” he takes a deep breath and deliberately seeks out Mycroft’s eyes. “I’ve wanted to for a while.” He draws up his knees and hugs them, hunching his shoulders protectively. “So. Is that – what do you think about that?”

Something warm seems to be expanding strangely fast in Mycroft’s chest. He blinks confusedly. “You –”

“Crap – I mean – I don’t mean I’ve just been…lurking around you this whole time,” adds Greg, letting his knees fall and running both hands through his hair. “I just – we’re friends, y’know? But if you want – if you did…too –” he takes a deep, frustrated breath.

Mycroft makes eye contact, blinking with shock, completely taken aback.

Greg can’t help laughing, although his eyes are still anxious. He gently touches Mycroft’s knee. “Myc, I just tried to kiss you, it can’t be that much of a surprise?” he smiles nervously.

“I –” Mycroft sets his lips in a line, takes a breath and tries again. “I thought – you and Lara Urquart –”

“Oh, God,” says Greg. “I told you – it really didn’t last long, and it pretty much wasn’t anything anyway. We had a couple of dates in Hogsmeade, but that was it.”

“And –” Mycroft can feel that his cheeks are bright red. “Before that? I understood –” the fingers of his right hand curl into his palm. “Well. A few girls.”

Greg clears his throat. “Well. Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Nothing serious,” he adds, hurriedly.

“But not – boys,” says Mycroft, hesitantly.

“No.” Greg clasps his knees to his chest again. “Not that I’m against it – obviously – just haven’t.”

“Oh.”

“Mycroft –” again Greg gently touches his knee. “What are you thinking, though? If you’re not interested there’s no point going through this stuff.”

Mycroft internally curses the blush he knows is spreading over his whole face. He simply isn’t sure what to say, but he raises his eyes to Greg’s and bites his bottom lip. As bravely as he can, he touches his fingertips to Greg’s hand on his knee.

Greg turns his hand over and Mycroft slots their fingers together. Greg’s smile is wide and beautiful, his eyes crinkled with disbelieving happiness. “Yeah?”

Mycroft gives a half-nod. “Yes,” he murmurs.

“Okay – um – bloody hell Mycroft,” grins Greg. He looks slightly overwhelmed, running his free hand through his hair. He squeezes Mycroft’s hand. “Um – I have a question – was that your first kiss?”

Mycroft’s stomach plummets and he stares down at their joined hands. “Was it that obvious?” he asks, as jokily as he can.

Greg gives a little huff of laughter, but squeezes Mycroft’s hand until he looks up at him. “I _meant,_ I feel crap that it happened in circumstances like that,” he smiles, grin getting cheekier by the second. “I _meant,_ if we gave it another go –” his grin widens still further as Mycroft’s lips quirk, “– then this one could be your official first kiss. The one you have to remember.”

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow.

“Ooh, I got eyebrowed,” giggles Greg, grabbing Mycroft’s other hand and winding their fingers together. “Is that a no?”

“It is not,” says Mycroft haughtily, trying to resist smiling.

Greg kneels up in front of him, eyes dark and deep. Their hands are still joined. “Maybe _this_  could be what I teach you in return for dancing,” he murmurs.

“You mean I don’t get to learn to skate?”

Greg grins, squeezing Mycroft’s hands. “Well it’s up to you, of course. What’d you prefer?”

Mycroft narrows his eyes and gives Greg a look. “I suspect you know.”

“Yeah, but I kind of just want to make you say it,” laughs Greg.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Gregory Lestrade, please instruct me in the art of kissing you.”

“Kissing _me?”_

“Yes. Do you want me to try it on other people too?”

“Um. No. Not really.”

“Well then.”

“Although you can.”

“I do not want to.”

“Good.” Greg grins. “Shush then.”

Mycroft can’t help smiling, and he closes his eyes as Greg places a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. His heart is thumping and he hopes, irrelevantly, that Greg can’t hear it. He could swear it misses a beat altogether, though, when Greg’s lips brush his at last. Soft and warm, the touch is feather-light and Mycroft’s eyelashes flutter. He tries not to allow his hands to tense in Greg’s, although his first impulse is to tug him closer. _Concentrate, Mycroft, this is the one you remember._

Greg’s lips press a little harder on his, and suddenly the space in Mycroft’s brain taken up with worrying is full of _yes, please_ and _Greg is kissing me, Greg _–__

_It’s not true, is it, that you can’t breathe, you just breathe through your nose, quietly so that Greg doesn’t know how much this affects me, how much I want him –_

_I do, I want him – how many people have I truly wanted?_

_How many have I trusted enough?_

_Why do I trust him?_

Greg lets go of one of Mycroft’s hands and runs his own gently up his arm, over his shoulder. Mycroft can’t fully suppress a shiver as Greg brushes his fingertips lightly up his neck. He feels Greg smile into the next soft kiss, and resolves to make sure he doesn’t give himself away again.

When Greg opens his lips, just a little –

_Oh,_ says Mycroft’s brain, shocked at the strength of the thrill that runs through him as Greg’s tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, then touches his own. He feels he could rock backwards, could sway under the pressure of the _difference_ this makes. His breath catches in his throat and Greg leans in, lips pressed closer together, the tip of his tongue darting out to tease. Mycroft’s thoughts seem to float, overwhelmed by the excess of bodily sensation, by the unprecedented beat of instinctive _closer, harder, closer_ that thumps with his racing pulse.

Nothing in his life has felt this intimate, or this good, and he is distantly shocked by the crumbling of the invisible walls around his person. His feet seem to stumble along the edge of a precipice, but his senses are full of Greg.

Gently, Greg pulls away, squeezing Mycroft’s hand in his own. His other hand settles over Mycroft’s knee. “Alright?” he murmurs.

Mycroft feels dishevelled, lips sensitive, bruised. He passes his fingertips over them in a quick, unconscious gesture. When he looks up to Greg, their eyes catch and tangle, neither looking away.

Mycroft cannot help a slow, shy smile.

Greg beams in return.

Greg whispers and it might be “come and lie down with me,” but really his lips move silently in an indication of intent and Mycroft obeys pliantly the tug of Greg’s fingers in his own. Their knees brush as they settle, heads close on the pillow, and Mycroft’s eyes dart to take in the familiar strangeness of Greg lying down next to him.

The last time he lay in bed with someone was with Sherlock, years ago, the tearstained little boy seeking proximity, if not comfort, after another argument with their parents as exhaustion washed over Mycroft, miserable itchy frustration with _everyone_ in his family as he watched the boy – half another version of Mycroft, half a proudly stubborn stranger – sleep fitfully, curls crushed into the pillow, eyes screwed spitefully shut.

The startling luxury of Greg’s toe stroking across the top of his foot, and Mycroft wishes with every fibre of his being that he’d taken his socks off, because just that touch was electrifying but if…but if…

He must have frowned a little, caught off guard by the impossibility of lucid thought so close to Greg, but Greg’s expression is complicated, concern and reticence and eager need –

Mycroft’s spine tingles with the certain knowledge that he is _wanted, yes, wanted –_

His finger teases Greg’s palm, _round and round the garden,_ as Mrs Hudson used to sing, and Greg bites his bottom lip, eyelids heavy, dark and smudged.

The air is charged, _but I don’t know what happens next, and I don’t think I’m ready,_ whispers through Mycroft’s head. _I wish he was a Legilimens. I wish I was. Another language to learn. Occlumency is not so hard, perhaps Legilimency would not be too difficult –_

Almost unconsciously, Mycroft’s fingers wander, exploring Greg’s soft golden skin, fingertips brushing across the heel of his hand. Greg’s muted gasp as Mycroft’s fingers graze the tender place at his wrist draws their eyes together. “You don’t mind?” murmurs Mycroft.

Greg bites his bottom lip and shakes his head against the pillow. “’Course not,” he whispers, eyes dark, crinkled with soft amusement.

Mycroft’s gaze moves hesitantly back down to where his fingers linger at Greg’s wrist. Slowly, he sweeps his touch up a couple of inches. Greg’s arm hair is Veela ash-silver too. His golden skin seems to glow with it. When Mycroft’s thumb tucks into the crease of Greg’s elbow, the Gryffindor smiles unrestrainedly. Mycroft glances up to him, the corners of his own mouth turning up with a reflected smile. He raises one eyebrow quizzically.

“Ticklish,” smiles Greg, softly.

Mycroft teases the smooth skin with the pad of his thumb, and smiles as Greg huffs a laugh. Greg’s foot curls itself over Mycroft’s ankle.

“I like being able to make you smile,” whispers Greg. Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. “You don’t smile enough.”

Mycroft blinks a few times, but does not know how to answer. He brushes his fingertips gently up the underside of Greg’s upper arm, heart skipping as he hears the other boy’s suppressed intake of breath.

As he nears the top of Greg’s arm, Greg shifts gently so that he lies flat on his back, and Mycroft shifts naturally with him, rolling onto his front and letting his fingers wander over Greg’s t-shirt, his shoulder and chest, up to the delicate collarbone and the dip at the base of his neck –

Suddenly fearful, Mycroft bites his bottom lip and hesitates. This is hardly – he is simply pleasing himself, exploring – these things are surely hardly new to Greg, and this must seem amateurish, childish – he makes to move his hand away, but finds it held in place by Greg’s.

“Don’t,” says Greg gently. “I want you to.”

Mycroft blushes and blinks. How much he wants to kiss the soft dip at the bottom of Greg’s neck. Taste it. Run his lips upwards, and bury them in the place below Greg’s sharp jaw. He is breathless with the possibilities, with his own shyness.

Greg guides Mycroft’s hand back to the base of his neck.

There is something in the shift of positions – Greg lying on his back, Mycroft on his front – he could press forward, cover Greg’s body with his own, place kisses wherever he liked – that makes Mycroft almost dizzy. And perhaps Greg has done this on purpose, because Mycroft can feel how this power makes adrenaline course through his veins, and tentatively his fingers find Greg’s pulse, pounding in his neck, _or perhaps it’s my own pulse, I can’t tell anymore –_

He smoothes his thumb down the line of Greg’s jaw, and for all that he is strong, a Quidditch player, his jaw is delicate, sculpted clean lines. Mycroft’s fingertips brush Greg’s hairline behind his ears, and _Merlin_ he wants to bury his fingers in Greg’s silver hair –

Mycroft’s skin feels full of fire, and he is afraid that he is very flushed, dishevelled-looking. He flicks his gaze up, and finds Greg watching him with dark eyes, his expression complicated and hungry. It makes Mycroft’s breath catch in the back of his throat.

“Kiss me?” murmurs Greg.

Mycroft’s gaze darts over the other boy’s face for a few moments, then he presses tentatively forward. His heart thumps, very aware that he is in a position of power, of dominance, nervous that he may get it wrong. The first brush of their lips is just a whisper touch, and then Mycroft pushes a little closer, a little harder, pulse racing, chest tight. As Greg had done, he opens his lips slightly, flicks his tongue out to draw its very tip across Greg’s bottom lip, and is surprised to hear a muffled groan from the other boy.

Mycroft draws back, worried.

“No – no –” moans Greg, reaching up and twisting his fingers in the fabric of Mycroft’s shirt. “Don’t go.” His eyes are still closed, and Mycroft blinks rapidly, watching him. _So the groan was – that was good –_ his brain supplies, and he presses forward to kiss Greg less gently, with a little more confidence.

“Mmmm,” murmurs Greg into their kiss, and Mycroft can’t help smiling a little. “It shouldn’t be a surprise to me that you learn quickly,” whispers Greg, “Head Boy.”

Mycroft smiles and watches Greg’s eyes open. Shyness overwhelms him and he fixes his gaze on the collar of Greg’s t-shirt.

Greg untangles his fingers from Mycroft’s shirt and runs them gently over his shoulder instead. “Hey,” he says gently. “Okay?”

Mycroft nods, still not meeting the other boy’s eyes. He shifts and lies down on his back, head next to Greg’s on the pillow, looking up at the canopy of the four-poster. His stomach flips. He doesn’t know what happens next, he’s in uncharted territory, overwhelmed, confused.

Greg turns onto his stomach and strokes two fingers over Mycroft’s shoulder, keeping distance between their bodies. “Bit much?” he asks lightly.

Embarrassed, Mycroft presses his lips into a hard line and shakes his head. He keeps his gaze trained above them both.

“It’s okay,” says Greg gently. “Anything is –” he hesitates. “It’s all okay.”

Mycroft clears his throat, embarrassment heating his cheeks and making him close his eyes. “I am…I have not – I simply have no –” he presses his fingertips into the bed at his side. “No experience of this.” He half-shakes his head. “Sorry. It must seem –” he sighs, “ridiculous.”

He feels Greg move closer, and then a hand cups his cheek. “Hey,” murmurs Greg, and Mycroft opens his eyes. “Don’t think that,” says Greg, brown eyes soft. “It’s not what I’m thinking.”

“I just don’t know what happens – next,” whispers Mycroft, shamefacedly.

Greg’s eyebrows flicker upwards in surprise for a moment, then he moves to lie down on his side. He runs one hand down Mycroft’s chest and pulls gently at his shirt. “Come and look at me,” he says. Mycroft shifts over onto his side, tucking his knees up between them. Shame and shyness flutter in his stomach.

“Mycroft,” says Greg quietly. “I – you know I’m not –” he hesitates. “’M’not – y’know, _pushing_  for anything.” His cheeks are tinged with pink, too. “I mean, you’re _gorgeous,_ but –”

Mycroft closes his eyes, cheeks bright red. His breathing feels tight, hurried.

“I just assumed,” says Greg, “since – since kissing was new – it’d be a while –” He takes a shaky breath. There’s a pause. “Open your eyes?” he asks, tentatively.

Mycroft blinks as he opens them, unable to make eye contact with Greg. Instead he stares at his lips. “I just assumed that it was – that you would.” He stops talking, and bites his lip.

Greg grabs his hand between them on the bed, winds their fingers together. “No, I – that stuff happens when we’re both ready,” he says softly. There’s a moment of silence while Mycroft watches their joined hands. Greg clears his throat bravely. “It might…you should know, I’ve only slept with one person. Girl,” he corrects himself. “It was a couple of years ago. A friend from home. We got together in the summer holiday and it happened then. We weren’t particularly good as a couple. Better as friends. But apart from kissing and stuff, that’s the extent of my vast experience.” He chuckles a little on the last couple of words.

“Okay,” mumbles Mycroft, cheeks still hot with embarrassment. Ugly, dark jealousy squirms in the pit of his stomach, but it’s a relief to know at least. “Okay,” he repeats, flicking his gaze tentatively up to meet Greg’s. “Thank you,” he adds, under his breath.

“Nah,” murmurs Greg. He bends his head to place a kiss on the back of Mycroft’s hand, lips soft. “You can ask me stuff too, yeah?”

Mycroft nods. “I shall try.” He takes a breath. “You said that –” he bites his lip. “You said that you were better as friends. Can you tell – how can you tell if –” he breaks off and looks fixedly at their hands again.

Greg squeezes his hand. “Well – I think you sort of find out over time,” he says apologetically. “Sorry, I know that’s not a particularly helpful answer. But with Helen – I mean, we’d been friends since primary school. And I have to admit I wasn’t particularly…y’know. We got together at a party when we were drunk, and I thought I’d give it a go but…” he trails off, looking a bit shamefaced. “That sounds bad, prob’ly. I just mean, I hadn’t been head over heels with her for ages or anything.”

Mycroft nods slightly.

“If it helps,” adds Greg, “I’ve thought you’re gorgeous for a while, and obviously really clever, and you’re really funny –” Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft can see that Greg’s cheeks are pink. “So,” adds Greg, inconsequentially.

Mycroft blinks. “That is hardly people’s usual reaction,” he says, flatly.

“Well, I was a bit intimidated by you at first, in class and stuff,” says Greg, smiling softly. “You’re smart. And direct. But in group work, it’s not like you were nasty or anything. Just not interested in distraction. But I wanted to distract you.” He grins.

Something in his tone makes Mycroft glance up. “You are distracting me now,” he says, diffidently.

“Good,” murmurs Greg. “That’s good.” He pulls Mycroft closer by their joined hands, and places a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Very good,” he whispers.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry it has been so long since the last update. I was writing this fic when my Nan passed away, and it took me some time to come back to it. Thank you so much for being kind, supportive, and wonderful readers as always. You are amazing ❤️

“It’s official. We’ve officially missed lunch.”

 _“Grégoire._ It is okay. We will not starve.”

Greg pokes his fingertips none-too-gently into Mycroft’s sides, and kisses his chest. __“_ You_ probably will. You only had about three bites of croissant and a tiny bit of pear. You’re ridiculous.”

“You are ridiculous,” retorts Mycroft, suppressing a most undignified giggle as Greg digs his fingers further into his stomach. He squirms away, horribly aware that Greg will be able to feel how large it is. “In any case, we had every chance to go down to lunch.”

“Oi, where’re you going,” grumbles Greg, pulling him back. “Yeah, yeah, I know, but I’m not going bloody _anywhere_ that involves stopping kissing you.”

“That will make mealtimes difficult, indeed.”

“Damn. But I love food.” He shrugs. “Still. Can’t be helped.”

“And lessons.”

“Nope. Boring. Not going.”

“And the library.”

“Fine. Let’s never go again.”

“And Quidditch.” Mycroft plays his trump card with a smug smirk, and Greg grabs his hand, pinning it playfully to the bed.

“Oh well. It’s not like the team needs a captain anyway.” He grins, watching Mycroft roll his eyes. “Or I could just pop you on the front of my broom. Available for kissing at all times.” He laughs at Mycroft’s supercilious expression.

“Hardly, Gregory. A high-speed broomstick collision is not on my list of things to experience this year.”

“Oh, _Myc,_ well just let me know what experiences you _do_ want to have…”

Mycroft flushes, and deflects his embarrassment with an incensed sigh. “That nickname. I keep forgetting not to call you Gregory, and then _that_ happens.”

Greg giggles. “Sorry Mycroft. Why don’t you like it? I’ll stop if you properly, _properly_  hate it.”

Mycroft bites his lip, but he feels high on the past couple of hours, on the laughter and excitement and joy of lying here with Greg, talking and kissing and touching each other’s skin. “My mother – is fairly insistent that to shorten either my or Sherlock’s names is extremely crass, or as she puts it, ‘common’. The habit of thought has stuck, I suppose.” He twists part of the bedspread between his fingers as he says it, avoiding Greg’s eyes.

Greg gives a hum of understanding and a little huff of laughter. Mycroft can’t help staring up at him: silver hair messy, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling, lips red and a little swollen. _Beautiful._

“Well, I am very common,” giggles Greg, nuzzling his face close to Mycroft’s to kiss his chin. “So that’s alright.” There’s a little _mmm_  in the back of his throat as Mycroft runs his fingers up his arm. “Do _you_ actually hate it? Or is it just her opinion getting in your head?”

Mycroft considers for a moment, tilting his head on the pillow. _My hair must be such a mess from all this twisting about._ “I think I can bear it, as long as it is only you.”

Greg kisses under his chin, and runs his lips down his jawline. Mycroft shivers.

“Only me,” murmurs Greg. “Sounds good to me.”

Struck by a horrible thought, Mycroft adds, _“Never_ in front of Sherlock.”

Greg snorts with laughter. “Oh come on, it’d be worth it just to see his face,” he giggles.

“No!” Mycroft twists and tries to avoid laughing as Greg tickles just below his ribs.

“Don’t worry, I’m just winding you up,” says Greg, eyes warm and dark. “I’ll be very prim and proper in front of your brother.”

“As if you know how to be,” sniffs Mycroft, attempting to look disdainful.

“Oi, posh Slytherin git,” grins Greg. “I’ll have you know I can dance properly an’ everything.”

“Such talents,” returns Mycroft condescendingly.

Greg kisses him, hard, and bites his bottom lip. Mycroft has to suppress a whimper. The bottom-lip biting, he has discovered, gets to him.

“Snobby bastard,” says Greg fondly, but he is a little breathless. “At least I know how to shut you up.”

Mycroft shrugs. “Yes,” is all he says, and Greg pulls him close, arms wrapped tight around his back.

“It’s cold in here,” mumbles Greg into Mycroft’s shoulder. “Your dungeon is definitely even more freezing than Gryffindor Tower.”

“We are above ground in the dormitory.”

“Yeah, but they still somehow managed to make it darker and chillier,” grins Greg. “Fits the Slytherin image I suppose, but I don’t know how you can bear to get out of bed in the morning in this temperature.”

“During term time the curtains are drawn around the bed, of course, and sometimes I use the hot-air charm until it is less glacial.” Mycroft places a tentative kiss on Greg’s earlobe. “The worst thing is the stone floor.”

Greg shivers and snuggles closer. “You’re Head Boy. Can’t you petition for carpets or something?”

Mycroft gives a small huff of amusement, but his heart races as he feels that Greg is hard against his leg. His own excitement has been difficult to ignore for a while, but this is – this is – he takes a quick, silent breath, keeping his face hidden over Greg’s shoulder. He’s not sure how he feels – definitely renewed arousal, but something akin to fear, too. _We want one another._ The thought is bizarre, alien. _He wants me._ It feels irreconcilable with Mycroft’s understanding of the world.

Greg shifts backwards, just a little, and places a soft kiss on Mycroft’s lips. They are no longer touching in the same way.

“I could petition for carpets instead of a summer ball,” says Mycroft hurriedly, to cover the break in his concentration.

“You would as well.” Greg kisses his chin. “Don’t you dare.”

“You would sacrifice my daily comfort simply for an evening of dancing?”

“Dancing with _you,”_ smiles Greg, winding their fingers together. “That’s the important part.”

Mycroft can feel himself blush. He closes his eyes; when he opens them again, Greg is watching him, brows drawn together slightly. _It was not his intention to imply such a long-term liaison,_ thinks Mycroft. He clears his throat, casting about for some way to change the topic of conversation.

A tapping at the window relieves him of the responsibility. “It’s Sam,” says Greg, looking up. He tightens his fingers in Mycroft’s. “Come with me.”

“It is a matter of metres, Gregory.”

“Yeah. Too far from you.” Greg kisses Mycroft’s shoulder and gives him puppy eyes. “Myc.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but moves to the edge of the bed. Greg’s arm round his waist, they walk to the window together.

The chilly blast when Greg swings the window open makes Mycroft shiver, and Greg slams it closed quickly as the owl hops inside. Sam sticks out his leg, blinking slowly, and Greg takes the letter. He sits down on the closest bed to skim-read it. Sam ruffles his feathers and hunkers down to preen and get warm.

Mycroft sits next to Greg. He wants to touch, to continue giving and taking affection as they have been, but he holds himself back a little. _Not too much,_ says a voice in the back of his head. _Do not be too much._

“It's from Em,” says Greg, with a little half-smile. “Suggesting some dates to meet up. She says tomorrow or nearer New Year's. I think I'll get Sam to go back, say tomorrow. Better to get all the family stuff done so I can concentrate on finishing off those essays.”

Greg slips his arm around Mycroft's waist and leans his head on his shoulder. “Come with me?”

Mycroft blinks. “Oh –” he knits his fingers together in his lap. “No I – I should –”

Greg kisses his shoulder. “Come on. It'll be fun, I promise. The kids are so cute, and my sister's a laugh.” He squeezes Mycroft's waist. “Outstanding gene pool, you see.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

Greg snorts, then pushes him down onto the bed and tries to nip at his neck.

“Vampire,” protests Mycroft.

“Aristocrat.”

“I'll be sad if you don't come with me.”

“Emotional blackmail, Gregory.”

“Yup.”

“Shameless.”

“Totally.”

“Is it not a little soon to meet your family?”

“You've already met Tante Mae.”

“By accident, merely.”

“I want to spend the day with you.”

Mycroft buries his face in Greg's neck, trying not to betray his agitation at the thought of being found wanting by one – or several – of Greg's closest relations.

“Where will you meet them?”

“Regent’s Park.”

“I –” he hesitates, distracted as Greg nuzzles his earlobe.

“Come on. They’ll love you. Stop worrying.”

Mycroft sighs slightly. “Will it not be – won’t there be – questions?”

Greg strokes a hand through Mycroft’s hair and smiles down into his eyes. “I can just say you’re a friend, if you want.” He grins lopsidedly. “’Spect it’ll be pretty obvious by the fact I can’t keep my hands off you, but I can try. In public. Probably.”

Mycroft can’t suppress a smile as he rolls his eyes. “Very well,” he hears himself say, quietly.

Greg beams, and leans in for a soft kiss that builds slowly in intensity.

Mycroft struggles to keep his breathing even.

“I’ve got an idea about the Floo thing,” says Greg, stroking Mycroft’s side. “’bout you getting sick. I don’t want you to spend all tomorrow feeling shit too.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Mmm?”

“Madam Pomfrey’ll be able to make you a draught, I’m sure,” says Greg cheerfully. “Anti-nausea. We’ll go and ask her in a bit.”

Mycroft tips his head to the side. “I must admit that would be a relief.”

“Yeah, and I want you to be able to have tea with us,” says Greg. “Em suggested tea and scones at the café in the park.”

Mycroft nods to the owl, still preening lazily on the windowsill. “You should send your answer.”

Greg scribbles a return note to his sister and attaches it to Sam’s leg. “Poor boy’s got another long flight,” he mutters, stroking the top of the owl’s head with gentle fingers. “Least it won’t be so cold down south.” He opens the window to let the bird fly free, then slams it again and grabs Mycroft’s hand. “Come back to bed,” he grins. “I’m freezing again.”

 _“Grégoire,”_ murmurs Mycroft as they tumble back onto the bed together. “We should continue work. And visit Madam Pomfrey.”

Greg’s arms are tight around his back, his shoulders. “Hmm, we will,” he murmurs, dark eyes sparkling. “Promise. Soon.”

Mycroft cannot help returning the smile. “I suspect that you may be bluffing.”

“So have you visited London much?” asks Greg.

“Once or twice with my father, to visit the Ministry,” says Mycroft soberly. “Otherwise, simply Diagon Alley.”

“You’ve not been to the park, then?”

“No.”

“It’s lovely. It’ll be cold though. Can’t wear your robes. Have you got a winter coat?”

Reluctantly, Mycroft shakes his head. “I have a formal one, but it is at my parents’ house.”

“Think I’ve got a spare one. Honestly, you wizards with your weird clothing.”

Mycroft pokes his fingers under Greg’s ribs, marvelling at the permission he suddenly has to touch in this way, to make Greg squirm and giggle.

“Have you been on the Tube?” Greg laughs, pushing Mycroft onto his back and holding his wrists.

Silently, Mycroft catches his breath, but lies still. He hopes that the flush on his cheeks is not too obvious. “Never.”

Greg smiles and kisses his nose, winding their fingers together above Mycroft’s head. “Have you got any Muggle money?”

“A little.”

“Cool. We won’t have to go to Gringott’s then.”

“What are your nephew and nieces’ names?” Mycroft tries to say it casually, without betraying his nervousness, but Greg’s smile is soft.

“My nephew’s called Jack, and the girls are Sylvaine and Aude. After my Mum,” he adds.

Mycroft runs his fingers gently up the underside of Greg’s arm. There’s a pause. “Are they identical?”

Greg smiles. “Technically they’re identical twins, but you can tell the difference. Mostly because Aude’s so much louder. They’re two and a bit, and definitely in the ‘terrible’ phase.”

“I see.” Mycroft hesitates. “And what does that entail?”

Greg gives a soft snort of laughter. “No need to look so terrified. Mostly they just throw tantrums at the drop of a hat, but Em and Dave are good at dealing with them, don’t worry.” He grins. “Could always leave you in charge of them for a bit, if you want. Alone.”

Mycroft glares at him. “Thank you, Gregory.”

Greg chuckles. “Welcome.” He pulls Mycroft closer. “Stop wandering off.”

“I am right here.”

“Not close enough.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes in mock exasperation. “How close is close enough?”

“I don’t know.” Greg’s tone is light, but his eyes are deep and wide.

Mycroft’s breath catches in the back of his throat. There’s a beat of silence while they watch one another. “And you have noticed no evidence of magic in your nephew or nieces yet?” he says, hurriedly.

“Nah, although it’s not like I’m around that much,” says Greg lazily. “But Em grew up with me, she’s got a pretty good idea what to look for. Honestly, the amount of stuff that happened to me in school, she was always having to get me out of problems. Pretty sure she’d pick it up straight away if anything started happening.” He laughs, dark eyes crinkling. “This one time, in primary school, one of the big boys was trying to ruin our football game – kept tripping my mate Kev over and nicking the jumpers we’d put out as goalposts, stupid stuff – and eventually I got so pissed off I started making him trip over his own feet. Only I didn’t really know it was me making it happen, you know? Me and my mates were laughing our heads off at him, so he started coming over to get us and Em stormed over, punched him in the face and ended up in detention. Mum had us on gardening duty for _weeks_ after that.” He smiles fondly. “I still hate mowing the bloody lawn.”

Mycroft runs his fingertips over Greg’s collarbone.

Greg smiles at the soft, exploratory touch. “’S’weird, isn’t it, thinking about back then, when we weren’t really in control of our magic,” he muses. “Mum told me what was going on, but once she died – and then Tante Mae –” he pauses.

Mycroft hesitates. “Things were a little different for Sherlock and I,” he says quietly, hoping that his thoughts are not an intrusion on Greg’s.

Greg rolls further onto his side and settles his head on the pillow, drawing Mycroft closer. “Mmm?” he hums, eyes curious.

“We – as I mentioned previously,” murmurs Mycroft. “We had tutors, instead of attending a school. And we were encouraged to develop our magic, within the bounds of Ministry regulation.”

“No wonder you’re so good at everything,” mumbles Greg, mock-grumpily. He runs the tip of his nose along Mycroft’s jaw. Mycroft tries not to shiver.

“I have never played football, though,” he says quietly, tipping his head onto Greg’s shoulder. “And it could be…claustrophobic, just Sherlock and I.”

Greg nods. “He’s…what? Five years younger than you?”

“Indeed.”

“Not that easy, sometimes.”

“No.” _Especially not with our parents, and with Sherlock’s fierce intelligence._

Greg pushes Mycroft onto his back and strokes a hand through his hair. His eyes are deep and dark. Mycroft thrills to the feeling of Greg’s fingers caressing his scalp. “Come on,” says Greg reluctantly. “Let’s go and find Madam Pomfrey. Bet she’ll have something to help.”

Mycroft sits up, and Greg drags him back down again.

“Gregory –”

“Mmm?”

“You just said –”

“I know, I know, I just…” Greg tightens his arms around Mycroft’s waist. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“You do not wish me to spend tomorrow feeling sick.”

“No, I know – but the infirmary’s a long way away, and you’re here, and…”

_“Grégoire.”_

“Bah.”

“I shall go alone.”

“No you bloody won’t.”

“Then the problem can only be solved by you getting out of bed.”

“Our nest’s warm.”

“I am leaving.”

“Not if I keep you here.”

“You are impossible.”

“You like me really.”

“Well, everyone has their weaknesses, it would seem.”

*

Mycroft sleeps well but wakes early. The bed feels overlarge without Greg, and Mycroft soon braves the cold to wash and dress in fastidiously tidy fashion. He drinks a glass of cold water with the draught that Madam Pomfrey had given him, and ensures that he pockets the second vial for the return journey. Nervousness crawls in the pit of his stomach, and he tries not to dwell on the fact that he will be meeting Greg’s family.

An hour of work on his History of Magic essay distracts him thoroughly enough from thoughts of the day ahead. At half past nine, he checks he has everything he needs – Muggle and wizard money, wand, vial of anti-nausea draught – and steps outside the common room.

Greg is heading towards him down the corridor. He breaks out into an irrepressible grin when he sees Mycroft. “I was just coming to find you.” He holds out a long black garment. “Spare coat. You’ll be freezing otherwise. London’s warmer than up here, but still.”

It’s a soft, warm-looking peacoat. Not exactly Mycroft’s usual style. “Oh,” he says, caught off guard. “Thank you, Gregory.”

Greg smiles at him, eyes soft. His own coat hangs on his arm, backpack slung over his shoulder. He steps forward, and takes Mycroft’s hand. “Sleep okay?”

Mycroft nods, and Greg presses close, into his space. Mycroft wants to cling to him. He dips his head a little, not quite daring to –

Greg kisses him, a low hum of appreciation in his throat. “Too many hours since I’ve done that,” he murmurs, when they break apart. He squeezes Mycroft’s hand. “Figured you might not want to risk breakfast here, until you’ve tested the potion?”

“If you do not mind –”

“Nah, course not. We’ll get breakfast in town.”

The walk into Hogsmeade passes quickly, grey post-dawn light brightening gradually into cold, overcast day. Just outside the village, Mycroft draws his hand gently out of Greg’s, and buries it in his coat pocket.

“You took the draught already, yeah?”

“Yes. Madam Pomfrey’s instructions specified at least half an hour before.”

Greg holds the door of the _Three Broomsticks_ open for Mycroft. “Morning, Madam Rosmerta,” he says politely. “Have a nice Christmas?”

“Lovely, thank you dear,” she smiles. “Breakfast?”

“Sorry, we’re off to London,” says Greg. “Promise we’ll come in for some of that amazing porridge again soon.”

“The Floo again?” she asks, frowning. She catches Mycroft’s eye. “Not your favourite method of travel, I didn’t think, dear.”

Mycroft ducks his head. Greg grins. “Nah. Madam Pomfrey’s given him a draught. Hoping that does the trick.”

“Oh well, fingers crossed dear. If anyone can help, it’s Poppy.”

The journey is just as unpleasant, the air as dry and choking as ever. But when he stumbles out of the grate in Flourish and Blotts, the familiar crawling nausea does not hit him. He clings to Greg’s strong arms, eyes closed, assessing how he feels.

Normal. Eager for a cup of tea.

Opening his eyes, he finds Greg smiling cautiously at him. “Alright?”

Mycroft nods. “I – believe so.”

Greg grins. “You’ve not gone green this time.” His hands are strong, curled around Mycroft’s upper arms.

Mycroft buries his hands in the coat pockets again. “I should be very glad of a cup of tea.”

“Brilliant. Breakfast time then. Rosa Lee’s? I’ll pay – I ran out on the bill last time.”

Mycroft half-shakes his head. “It was not a problem.”

Greg snags them a copy of the _Prophet_ as they take a table in the teashop, and after a brief glance through the headlines they pick through the quick crossword. Greg has a full English and coffee again, but this time Mycroft orders porridge. The breakfast tea is malty and delicious.

“It has to be ‘otter’, come on –” Greg takes a bite of toast and gesticulates at the newspaper. “Otherwise that doesn’t work with eleven down –”

Mycroft tries to stop his eyebrows rising as he feels Greg’s feet capture his under the table. He can feel himself flushing, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the crossword.

“Oof, I’m so full,” sighs Greg. “That was gorgeous. How’s the porridge?”

“Very nice, thank you,” says Mycroft, pouring out the last cup of tea from the pot. “What time do we need to be at Regent’s Park?”

“Said around half eleven to Emma, so we’ll head over once you’ve had your tea.”

Mycroft gives a half-nod and tries to ignore the flip of nerves in his stomach. “And how long does it take to use the – Underground? I will need to purchase a ticket, yes?”

Greg squeezes his feet under the table. “Hey. Chill out. You’re with me. No need to worry about all that stuff. It’ll just take a couple of minutes to get you a travelcard, and the journey won’t take long at all.”

Mycroft suppresses a sigh. His chest feels tight. “Thank you,” he murmurs, looking down at the surface of his tea.

“Oi.” Greg squeezes his feet again and deliberately makes eye contact. “Stop freaking out about meeting my family.”

Mycroft lifts one eyebrow.

Greg snorts a soft laugh. “It’s obvious what you’re thinking.”

“Then the Occlumency tutoring was a waste of money on my father’s part.”

Greg smiles. “’M not reading your thoughts. Just your face.” He stands up. “Just pop to the loo. Can you get Rosa to bring the bill? _Don’t_ pay.” His hand brushes Mycroft’s shoulder as he walks away.

Rosa obviously hears him, because she appears with the bill after a few moments. “Hope he’s not leaving you with this again, duck.”

“I am under strict instructions not to pay,” murmurs Mycroft, waving his hand over the crossword in the _Prophet_ so that their answers twist, fade and disappear.

“Good,” she smiles. “Enjoy your breakfast?”

“Very much, thank you,” he returns politely. When Greg reappears, Mycroft goes to the loo, and by the time he comes back Greg stands at the door, pulling on his coat. He holds the door open for Mycroft, giving him a beaming smile.

“Occlumency lessons?” he asks, as they walk up the street towards the _Leaky Cauldron._ “Sounds intense.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft looks away, at the shop fronts.

“You never wanted to try Legilimency?”

“At the time, my mother decided that I was too young to attempt it. My father had already circumvented Ministry regulations in order to find me an Occlumency tutor.” Mycroft’s smile has a bitter twist to it. “I found the experience of having my mind invaded –” he pauses. “Unsettling.”

“Yeah, it’s always sounded horrible to me,” says Greg. Their upper arms brush together. “’Spose it’ll be one of the training requirements for the Auror job, though.” He huffs a laugh. “If I get that far. We have to spend the rest of the holiday in the library.” Mycroft can feel the other boy’s gaze on his profile. “And were you good at it? Occlumency?”

Mycroft raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I improved, over time.”

Greg takes out his wand and taps the wall behind the _Leaky Cauldron,_ which opens to them with the familiar scraping dance of bricks. “Hmm. Can’t say the idea of having someone prying round my head appeals at all.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” says Mycroft, grimly.

The interior of the pub is as warm and dingy as ever. Greg nods to the landlord as they pass through.

Mycroft takes a deep breath as they step out onto the Muggle London street. “Not far to the Tube station,” smiles Greg. His hand brushes the small of Mycroft’s back as they start to walk. Mycroft draws himself up, tall and aloof amidst the crowds of shoppers.

As they near the Tube entrance, Greg grabs his arm and pulls him aside, eyes wide and dark. He slips his arms around Mycroft’s waist. “Kiss, please.”

Mycroft glances around.

Greg smiles. “No-one’s gonna care, trust me. It’s London.” He pushes up on tiptoe and kisses Mycroft’s cheek. “If I’ve got to spend the day pretending nothing’s going on, I need a kiss to tide me over.”

Mycroft can feel himself flushing. Suppressing the urge to look again at the strangers flowing past them, he dips his head and brushes his lips against Greg’s. Greg hums in appreciation and presses closer. Mycroft’s heart seems to kick in his chest, adrenaline burning in his veins. _He is kissing me, in public. In front of people._

Greg nips Mycroft’s bottom lip and pulls reluctantly away. “Come on then, gorgeous.”

Mycroft wants to stroke his hands through Greg’s hair as they descend the steps into the Tube.

*

There has been no snow in London, but the stark winter trees and frosted grass of Regent’s Park are pretty all the same. Mycroft draws his coat around him as they walk the path towards the Boathouse café. Chilly swans and ducks ruffle their feathers by the lake.

“So?” asks Greg, throwing him a grin. “What d’you think of the Tube?”

“Measured against the Floo network, it is positively relaxing,” says Mycroft, drily.

“Ha,” says Greg, with a chuckle. “Just you wait until we’re on it at rush hour later.”

Mycroft grimaces. “That was a _quiet_  time?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Mycroft’s fists are tightly balled in the pockets of Greg’s coat. He bites his bottom lip.

“Stop worrying, gorgeous,” murmurs Greg, but then there’s a piercing yell.

“Uncle Greg!” A small figure is bombing towards them along the path.

Greg chuckles, advances a few more steps and kneels down, opening his arms. “Jacky!” he laughs, knocked almost off balance by the force of the hug from his nephew. The boy is clutching a plastic dinosaur, already falling over himself to update his uncle on the morning’s news. “We went to the museum, and I saw a dinosaur, and there was a T-Rex that roars, and Sylvaine didn’t like it but I did –”

Greg ruffles his hair, looking up and waving at a group of people over by the Boathouse. “There they are,” he says to Mycroft, nodding to the group.

“Who’s that?” asks Jack loudly, staring at Mycroft with wide, round eyes.

“My friend Mycroft,” says Greg, standing up and holding out his hand. “Can I have a look at your dinosaur?”

“No,” says Jack capriciously, clutching it to his chest.

“Oh, alright,” says Greg, eyes crinkling as he glances to Mycroft. “Suit yourself. Come on, let’s go and say hello to your mum and dad and the girls.”

Jack races away towards his family, and is scooped in by his father as he arrives back at the group. Mycroft drops his eyes to the floor, unable to bear the awkwardness of drawing close under their curious gaze.

“Alright?” says Greg as they reach the group. He shakes Dave’s hand and leans in to kiss Emma on the cheek, then bends down to say hello to the twins, strapped into their buggy.

“And who’s this?” asks Emma, holding her hand out to Mycroft.

“Mycroft,” says Greg, smiling up at her. “He’s in my year at school.”

Emma has the same silver-white hair as Greg, although she has dyed it to render it slightly blonder. Her chin is pointier, her face a little more heart-shaped.

Dave offers his hand next, his smiling “nice to meet you,” revealing a lilting Welsh accent. He asks about their journey.

Greg stands up and Emma takes the opportunity to lean closer to him. _“Tante Mae a dit que t’as maintenant un copain – c’est lui, non?”_

 _“Il parle français, Em.”_ Greg’s eyes are dancing with amusement.

Mycroft attempts to look as though he hasn’t heard, although he knows his cheeks are turning pink. He answers Dave, a little haltingly, about how busy the Tube had been. He isn’t sure of the protocol for the twins. Is he supposed to greet them?

One of them solves the problem, letting out a piercing yell as her sister pokes her in the neck.

“Oh, you two,” sighs Emma. “I think it’s time for you to get out and have a walk. Get rid of some of that energy.” She looks up at Greg and Mycroft. “Happy to walk around the lake first, then get some lunch after that?”

Greg nods. “Sounds good.” He bends down and starts unstrapping the girls. “Out you get, chickens.”

One of them glares at him. “Not chickens.”

“Silly,” says the other, identical frown in place. They both have fine silver hair, plaited in pigtails. They run away down the path, until Dave shouts “girls!” after them. Jack sticks close to his dad, holding the dinosaur up against the passing landscape as they walk.

“Slow down,” calls Emma to the twins. “Stay where we can see you, please.”

“Why’d you do their hair the same?” asks Greg, grinning at his sister and brother-in-law. “You’re just making it more difficult.”

“Oh, you know what they’re like,” says Emma, rolling her eyes. “I tried to do them a bit different, but Aude threw a fit and then Sylvaine got upset. It wasn’t worth the fuss.”

“You can tell the difference, anyway,” says Dave, running his hand through Jack’s brown hair. “You know which the loud one is.”

Greg smiles. “That’s not changed, then.”

“Oh my goodness, no,” laughs Dave. “I swear she does Sylvaine’s talking for her. And yelling.”

Mycroft looks out across the lake.

“You have a good Christmas with Tante Mae?” asks Greg.

“Yes, very,” says Emma. “Oh, she loved those sweets you got her. Her favourite.” Pushing the empty pram, she leans down to tuck in one of the clips. “How about you?”

“Nice, yeah,” grins Greg, catching Mycroft’s eye. “Great food. Thanks for sending that box of presents.”

“Are the jeans alright?” she glances over. “Oh, you’ve got them on. They look the right size.”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re great. Thanks Em.”

”We couldn’t believe it when four owls turned up to take the box,” laughs Dave. “How do they know?”

Greg laughs. “I’ve no idea, honestly.”

“Really though, is that school ever going to catch up with the times? I mean, owls.” Dave rolls his eyes. “You prob’ly don’t even know what’s going on with the rugby, do you?”

“Nope. I’ve said it before though, Dave, you could send me the sports section on Sundays, when you’re done with it.”

“More owls.”

Greg laughs. “Not long now.”

“Yeah lad, what you going to do once you finish, eh?”

Jack suddenly takes off, running towards his little sisters. “Gently, Jack –” calls Emma, and the boy slows his pace slightly as he approaches them.

“Job here in London, I expect,” says Greg, casually.

“Where’ll you live though? Too expensive roun’ here, isn’t it?”

Greg evades the question slightly. “Sure I’ll be able to get a houseshare or something.”

“Well you know you’re welcome to stay with us for a bit if you need to,” says Dave, putting his arm around Emma’s waist. “Let me push for a while, love.”

Emma relinquishes the buggy happily. “What about you, Mycroft?”

“I aim to work in London, too.”

“Oh, maybe you can get a place together.”

Greg looks away quickly, scrutinising the birds coming in to land on the lake.

Mycroft is unsure how to answer, but Dave comes to his rescue. “Honestly, it’s ridiculous around here. I’m always telling Em we could get a five-bedroom house in Wales for what we pay here –”

 _“I’m_  always telling _him,_ but then we’d be in Wales,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Cheeky madam,” says Dave, throwing her a grin. “You didn’t seem to mind it at university.”

“No, well that’s Cardiff, isn’t it. That’s almost as expensive as London.”

He snorts. “Oh, you know it’s not.”

She laughs. “Well it’s not much better, to buy. And you’d go mad in the countryside, same as me.”

“Alright, alright,” he grins, the familiar mock-argument clearly a well-worn routine. “I just do what I’m told.”

“Yeah, yeah, such a henpecked husband,” she smiles, rolling her eyes. “With your boozy Friday afternoons.”

Greg grins. “Dave works for a big social media firm, right in the centre of London,” he says, for Mycroft’s benefit. “The perks they get are ridiculous. Every Friday they have a beer trolley come round, and they just sit back and do bugger all for hours.”

“Hard work the rest of the week,” Dave defends himself, mildly. “Jacky, come on,” he calls. The boy has fallen a few paces behind them now, walking his dinosaur along a log.

“Aude Price, you leave that duck alone,” shouts Emma.

“So it’s the Ministry you’ll be looking at,” says Dave, as Jack runs past. “That’s what your great-aunt said.”

Mycroft can tell from Greg’s tone that he’s a little surprised. “Yeah.”

“That’d be some kind of administrative job then? Would it?”

There’s a pause. Casually, Greg says, “actually, I was thinking of trying for an Auror position.”

“Auror,” says Emma, neutrally. “And what’s that?”

“Well. It’s…it’s a kind of…police, I suppose.” Greg buries his hands in his jeans pockets and hunches his shoulders a little.

“Magical police,” says Dave, and his musical voice holds no trace of amusement.

Emma clears her throat. “Sounds – dangerous.”

“Nah, really, it won’t be,” says Greg, catching Mycroft’s eye. He frowns. “Has Tante Mae been – I dunno – telling you stuff?”

There’s another pause. “She mentioned a few things,” says Emma, guardedly.

“There’s no need to worry,” says Greg, on the exhale. “Really. It’s what I want to do.”

Emma gives a quiet sigh, but does not pursue the subject. “What about you, Mycroft?”

“Purely an administrative position,” he murmurs. “Although I admit to not having the same clarity of purpose as Greg.”

“I had no idea what I wanted to do when I left uni,” says Dave, giving him a half-grin. “Prob’ly best to try a few things out, see what sticks.”

Up ahead, Sylvaine bursts into tears when Aude grabs at the pebble she’d picked up.

“Oh no, here we go,” says Dave, rolling his eyes. “Sylvaine! Aude! Come here, please.”

They complete the circuit of the lake, chatting comfortably. Dave fills Greg in on all the main developments in both rugby and football over the past few weeks.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Sport not your thing, Mycroft?”

He gives her a quick half-smile. “Not at all.”

She grins. “Me either. Should’ve realised marrying a Welshman would mean round-the-clock rugby. Where’s your family live, then?”

“My parents’ house is in Sussex.”

“Ah. Have you got siblings?”

“One younger brother. Sherlock.”

“Magical?”

“Yes. We all are.”

“He’ll be at school with you then?”

“He is five years younger, so only in second year.”

“Ah. Nice you’re both there at the same time, though.”

Mycroft tips his head to the side, assenting politely.

"I always used to be jealous of Greg going off to school when we were younger,” she says, looking fondly at her brother’s back as he talks animatedly with Dave. “But it was nice not to have to deal with him being magic in secondary school, too.” She grins and glances at Mycroft.

He gives a small smile. “Yes, I have heard about some of the situations in which you had to intervene.” Tentatively, he asks, “you studied at Cardiff University?”

“Yeah. International Development, for all the use I’ve made of it since,” she says, gesturing at the kids. “One day, though, I’d like to get back to it.”

He nods. “A fascinating area, I am sure.”

“Neither of you want to go to university?”

“It is much less usual, in the wizarding world, unless you wish to become a full-time academic.”

She nods, then bites her lip. “And Greg – this Auror thing he’s talking about – is it really that dangerous? Or…”

Mycroft looks down at the floor, then away towards the Boathouse, which they are approaching again. “I –” he hesitates, weighing his words. “It is not without danger. But you must remember that wizarding medicine is far more advanced, and fast-acting, than Mu– than other types.”

She nods, looking unconvinced. “If it’s what he really wants, there’s not much we can do about it, I suppose.”

Mycroft is not sure what to say, but Greg turns round and smiles at his sister. “We going in for some lunch?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, seeming to put aside her concern. “Don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

“Same here,” agrees Dave. “This lot wake us up so bloody early.” He nods at the kids. “Savages’ve never heard of a lie-in.”

“I wouldn’t know Dave,” says Greg innocently. “I’m on holiday. Getting plenty of sleep.”

“Git,” says his brother-in-law, equably.

Greg holds the door open for their party. Dave and Emma are greeted by the server and find a table; following them, Greg places a hand gently in the small of Mycroft’s back. “Alright?” he murmurs.

Mycroft gives him a quick smile and nod.

Emma drops a stack of paper and coloured pencils on the table for the kids to play with.

“It’s the only way to keep them quiet,” she smiles. “Well, quiet-ish,” she adds, rolling her eyes and breaking up a scrap between Jack and Aude over who should use the red pencil. “There’s another red one! Here you go.”

Dave goes to order food for the family, and Emma takes the opportunity to nip to the loo. Greg is quickly drawn into Aude and Sylvaine’s messy, collaborative drawings. Jack, fussy, tires of drawing and starts flinging pencils at the centre of the table.

 _Tired and hungry,_ thinks Mycroft. He reaches over and picks up a new piece of paper. “Shall I make you something?” he asks, quietly.

Instead of answering, Jack freezes in place, watching Mycroft with wide, round eyes. Methodically, Mycroft starts to fold the A4 sheet, until he can open it out into a hat. He slides it over to the little boy. “I always think it looks like a pirate captain’s hat,” he says, calmly. “Shall we draw a skull and crossbones?”

Slowly, Jack nods. He holds out the black crayon, and Mycroft draws the outline of the pirate insignia in the middle of the hat.

“The rest of it needs to be black, of course,” he says, holding out the black crayon to Jack. “To be a proper pirate captain.”

Jack gives a small, reserved smile, and starts to colour in with wide strokes across the back of the hat. Mycroft grabs another piece of paper, and uses a knife to cut it down to square, before starting to fold. Before long, he’s made a parrot, which he places gently in front of Jack.

The little boy looks up, and grins widely. “For my shoulder,” he says.

Mycroft nods. “It needs colouring in, too.”

“Blue,” says Jack, decidedly, rushing to finish the colouring of his hat.

Emma and Dave return to the table, carrying trays of food. “Oh wow, Jacky,” says Dave. “What’s that you’ve got there, eh?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft sees Greg glance up.

“Mycroft made it,” says Jack. “I’m a pirate.”

Mycroft wishes he could make the parrot flutter onto the little boy’s shoulder, as he used to for Sherlock.

Emma grins and gives him a thumbs-up. Greg squeezes Mycroft’s knee under the table.

“Want!” yells Aude, pointing at the parrot.

“I can make you one,” says Mycroft quietly, reaching for another piece of paper.

“No,” says Jack, looking up at his sisters. _“You’re_ not allowed them. You’re not pirates.”

Aude’s bottom lip wobbles, but Sylvaine says, quietly and distinctly, “dino.”

“I can do a dinosaur,” says Mycroft, starting to fold. Jack looks slightly as though he regrets his hasty words.

Greg squeezes Mycroft’s knee again. “Since you’re busy, I’ll go and get us some food. What d’you fancy?”

Mycroft glances up. “Some tea would be most welcome.”

“’Course. I’m having a scone. D’you want one?”

Mycroft nods absently, still folding. “Thank you.” After a few more moments, he presents the dinosaur to Sylvaine. She smiles as she takes it, then shrieks as Aude makes a grab for it.

“Aude, don’t be so naughty,” says Emma. “Sylvaine, you need to colour that in darling. What colour are you going to do your dinosaur?”

“Yellow.”

“Want,” says Aude, lip wobbly again.

“A dinosaur?” asks Mycroft.

“Cat.”

“Ah –” he closes his eyes for a moment, trying to remember, then starts folding a new sheet of paper.

“We want a real cat,” says Jack, still colouring his parrot.

“Don’t start that again, Jacky,” says Dave, through a mouthful of sandwich. “You know we can’t have one.”

“Why not?” asks the little boy, petulantly.

“Because it’ll end up being another thing for your Mum to look after, most of the week.”

 _“I’ll_ look after it,” says the little boy emphatically.

“Alright,” says Dave. “You can have a hamster first, and if you look after that, then maybe we’ll get a cat.”

“Don’t want a stupid hamster,” says Jack, clearly on the edge of an impressive tantrum.

“Eat this, Jacky,” says Emma, passing him a piece of cheese sandwich. “Which juice do you want? Strawberry or blackcurrant?”

“Strawberry,” he mumbles, through the sandwich.

Mycroft suppresses a smile at these impressive diversionary tactics, and finishes a slightly lopsided cat. He passes it to Aude, who giggles.

“Say thank you, girls, Jack,” says Dave.

A chorus of preoccupied _thank yous_  comes from round the table.

“What colour are you doing your cat, Aude?” asks Dave.

“Green.” She brandishes a lime-green pencil at her father.

“Nice,” he says. “Natural.” He and Emma share a smile.

Mycroft gestures to the loos. “I shall just –”

When he returns to the table, Greg is putting down a tray of tea for Mycroft, coffee for himself and scones for both of them. They settle down to eat and watch the kids finish their colouring.

After a while, Greg and Mycroft take a restless Jack outside, where Greg teaches him to shout “yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!” at top volume.

He is just ordering a duck to walk the plank off the small jetty outside the Boathouse, when Emma, Dave and the girls – strapped into their buggy – emerge. The twins look sleepy.

“It’s going to be all pirates from now on, then,” grins Dave. “He’ll prob’ly want a real parrot before long.”

“Sorry,” says Mycroft, with a half-smile.

Dave claps him on the shoulder. “We’ll be getting them back home now, I think,” he says, nodding to the twins. “But it was nice to meet you, Mycroft. Good seeing you, Greg.”

Emma and Greg hug, and Greg says goodbye to the twins while Emma pecks Mycroft on the cheek. Jack surprises Mycroft by grabbing him round the knees. “Thank you for my parrot,” he says. Mycroft waves to him as the family walk away, toward the nearest park exit.

Greg sneaks his arm around Mycroft’s waist and pulls him close. “Come on, you.”

“Are we returning to the Tube? It will be dusk, soon.”

“Just one thing, first,” says Greg, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. “I have to show you something.”

It’s a quarter of an hour’s walk, and the sun falls steadily in the sky as they climb uphill. When they reach the top, Greg pulls Mycroft to sit on a bench facing the sunset, fingers of gold tingeing the rapidly-darkening grey London sky.

Greg pulls Mycroft close and puts his arm around his shoulder, rubbing his upper arm. “Got your gloves? It’s freezing up here, but the view’s too good to miss. One of my favourite bits of London.”

Mycroft pulls on his gloves and scarf, then glances quickly around. No-one nearby is paying them any attention. He leans his head tentatively against Greg’s, and Greg squeezes his shoulders. “Alright? You been up here before?”

“Never.”

They watch the sky darken to night as London lights up below them. When Greg kisses Mycroft, it is slow and needy, tongue tracing his bottom lip before pressing inside.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kindness as lovely readers. I appreciate you so much, truly. ❤️

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft ducks his head, concentrating on a reference he needs to get down –

“Myc.” Greg’s hand is soft and warm on the back of his neck, fingertips teasing at his hairline.

Mycroft shivers and looks up into Greg’s worried brown eyes.

“Hey mister. You didn’t come to lunch, and you feel –” he flattens his hand against the side of Mycroft’s neck. “Yeah, you’re bloody freezing! I know you want to get your essays finished, but this is ridiculous. Come on, dinner’ll be served any minute. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Mycroft looks down at his parchment. Now he thinks about it, his fingers are stiff with cold. He shivers, and realises that he is also very hungry.

Gently, Greg draws the fountain pen out of his cramped hand. They pack up Mycroft’s stuff together, and Greg pulls Mycroft up, slipping an arm around his waist. “Come on, gorgeous,” he murmurs, picking up Mycroft’s bag for him.

“Gregory, you do not have to –”

“I know I don’t __have__ to. It’s okay though, right?”

Mycroft blinks, then nods. “Yes. Thank you.”

Greg lets go of Mycroft’s waist as they emerge from the library, but continues carrying his bag.

As they near the Great Hall, Mycroft’s steps slow. _I cannot bear a confrontation with my brother just at the moment._ “I am not particularly hungry,” he says, tentatively.

Greg just gives him a look. They stop in the corridor, facing one another. Greg sighs. “Listen – I dunno if you want to but – shall I go and grab us some food? I can bring it to your common room?”

Mycroft looks at him through his eyelashes, and nods.

“Okay,” says Greg, softly. For a moment, he puts a hand on Mycroft’s cheek. “See you in a few minutes, yeah?” He holds out Mycroft’s bag. “Password hasn’t changed since yesterday?”

Mycroft takes his bag and shakes his head. “It is still the same.”

“Okay, gorgeous,” murmurs Greg. “Won’t be long.”

Back in the dormitory, almost shaking with cold, Mycroft drops the bag next to his bed and grabs his towel.

A quick hot shower later, he realises he forgot to bring his wand into the bathroom to dry his hair. Pulling on his trousers, he carries everything else out into the dormitory, meaning to change into a new shirt and jumper.

“Myc, I –” Greg swings through the doorway just as Mycroft emerges. Whatever he was going to say dies on his lips.

Mycroft fights the instinctive urge to cover himself with whatever he has to hand. He hunches a little. “I – sorry –” he mutters, moving towards the bed. “I shall just be a moment.” He turns his back.

The slam of the dormitory door almost makes him jump. Greg’s voice is close when he next speaks, low and gentle. “Myc. Can I hug you?”

Mycroft stiffens a little. “You do not have to ask permission,” he says awkwardly.

“Nah, but –”

 _– we have not done this yet,_  Mycroft finishes Greg’s sentence in his head. “It is fine,” he says, rather offhandedly.

Greg’s hands are tentative as they settle on his hipbones. The kiss Mycroft feels between his shoulder blades makes him shiver. He is turned gently in Greg's arms. “Hey.”

Mycroft keeps his eyes down, examining Greg’s expression through his eyelashes. “Hello,” he murmurs soundlessly. Internally, he cringes with the knowledge that Greg can see his stomach, his pale, freckled shoulders.

Greg’s brown eyes are wide and dark. He leans in and kisses Mycroft’s collarbone, then nudges his lips into the soft-skinned dip at the base of Mycroft’s neck. He puts one hand up to stroke Mycroft’s face, the other on his shoulder. “Let me dry your hair for you.”

Slowly, Mycroft nods and sits on the edge of the bed. Greg stands between his knees, playing hot air from his wand through his hair, ruffling it with his left hand as he goes.

The feeling is incomparably lovely. Mycroft thrills to it, melting against Greg’s chest.

For a few moments once the drying is complete, Greg continues stroking his hand through Mycroft’s hair, then pushes him gently back onto the bed and clambers up next to him. He pulls Mycroft’s head onto his chest and starts to stroke his hair again.

It’s all Mycroft can do not to purr at the warmth and the soft, regular motion of Greg’s hand.

“You know I think you’re gorgeous, don’t you?” murmurs Greg.

Mycroft does not know how to answer. Eventually he gives a tiny nod against Greg’s chest.

“’Specially with your shirt off,” says Greg, and Mycroft can hear the grin in his voice. He wedges his eyes more firmly closed and settles his head harder against Greg’s chest.

“This isn’t me – being weird, or – y’know, pushing for anything, at all –” says Greg carefully. “I just – I think you should know that I want you. A lot. All the time, actually.” He clears his throat. “And that’s not to make us…do anything, it’s just – I’m not sure you know. And I think you should.”

Mycroft swallows, and slides his hand over Greg’s stomach, carefully avoiding the rather obvious bulge in his jeans. “Thank you,” he mutters. “I also – likewise.”

Greg’s hand falters, just a little, in his hair, but then the smooth stroking continues. “Good. That’s good.” He rubs his hand over Mycroft’s back. “This feels good, yeah?”

Mycroft gives a small, emphatic nod.

“I feel like you’ve been –” Greg hesitates. “A bit stressed, the past few days.”

Mycroft does not move.

“I know you’ve been finishing off your essays and that, but still,” he murmurs. There’s a pause. His voice is cautious when he continues. “I figured it might be about – the party. Tomorrow, I mean. New Year’s Eve.”

Mycroft stiffens a little, a sharp intake of breath. He suppresses the urge to change the subject, or leave the room. Eventually, he nods against Greg’s chest, the smallest of movements.

Greg strokes Mycroft’s hair. After a minute or two: “d’you want me to come with you?” he offers.

Mycroft sighs. _Please. Yes._ “I am so sorry, but my parents simply would not allow you to stay if you did,” he says quietly.

He can feel Greg nod. “I kind of expected that. What _can_  I do to help?”

Mycroft’s first instinct is to say _nothing, there’s nothing you can do,_ but the slow, steady pace of Greg’s hand in his hair soothes him. “I am not sure,” he says, quietly.

“Okay,” murmurs Greg. There’s a silence. “I might have an ulterior motive in trying to come to the party with you.”

Mycroft makes an enquiring noise in his throat, fingertips lazily stroking Greg’s side through his jumper.

“Don’t want your parents setting you up with some eligible young lady,” laughs Greg, but Mycroft can hear an edge of vulnerability in his voice.

He huffs wry amusement. “Do you think I am likely to acquiesce to an arranged marriage?”

Greg’s stomach tenses with laughter. “No, but the thought of you spending the evening with a bunch of ’em makes me grumpy.”

“Please be assured, it makes me grumpy too.”

“Will you have to dance with them?”

Mycroft hesitates, considering the question. “It is possible.”

Greg makes a noise that sounds as though he’s chewing something particularly unpalatable.

Mycroft rubs his cheek against Greg’s jumper, and pushes his head up into Greg’s hand, which has stopped running through his hair.

“Sorry,” murmurs Greg, starting again.

“In the spirit of confession,” says Mycroft slowly, “I am not, as far as I am aware, attracted to women at all.”

He hears Greg’s breathing in the pause that follows. “That’s good to know.” The hand not in Mycroft’s hair runs slowly down his arm. “Thank you for telling me.”

“An arranged marriage attempt would therefore fall far wide of the mark in terms of my own wishes or happiness,” says Mycroft, letting his eyes fall closed again as Greg massages his scalp.

Greg winds their fingers together and squeezes Mycroft’s hand. “Right,” he says. “You need some food.”

Mycroft makes a disgruntled noise in his throat and curls further onto Greg’s chest.

Greg laughs, softly. “Come on, lazy.”

“I am not lazy, Gregory,” says Mycroft, without heat. “I have nearly finished final drafts of all my essays.”

“Yeah, but you’re _very_ lazy in terms of actually taking care of yourself.”

“Hmff,” is Mycroft’s only response.

“I’m getting off the bed.”

“No.”

“We’re going downstairs.”

_“Non, Grégoire –”_

“Pfff, don’t think speaking French is going to make any difference, mister.” Greg starts to pull away so that he can roll to the edge of the bed.

Mycroft tightens his arm around Greg’s waist, and uncurls himself. He looks down into Greg’s eyes and kisses him hard. “Thank you,” he mutters as they part.

Greg shakes his head. “Wish I could actually do something.”

“Stay here tonight.” Mycroft hadn’t planned to say it. He flushes. “I mean – in the dormitory. You don’t have to share the bed – I –” he clears his throat. “Sorry.”

Greg chuckles slightly. “Mycroft Holmes, don’t bloody apologise! Of course I’ll stay here, if you want me to. And if I’m allowed to share the bed, I will.”

Mycroft blushes. “Very well.”

Greg grins. “Good tactic to distract me from going to get food,” he says jokingly, grabbing Mycroft’s hand and dragging him to the edge of the bed. “Come on you.”

They eat dinner – cheese and bread – curled together on the sofa in front of the fire, Mycroft’s back against Greg’s chest. Greg pops grapes into Mycroft’s mouth and kisses his earlobe.

“How ridiculous does my hair look, after all that?” asks Mycroft resignedly.

“Gorgeous. And don’t pretend that wasn’t you asking me to stroke your hair again,” grins Greg, nuzzling his lips against Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft laughs quietly, and Greg strokes his chest.

“I like seeing you laugh again,” he murmurs. “Felt like I wasn’t doing my job properly the last couple of days.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “It is not your job, Gregory.”

“You know what I mean. Just want you to be happy.”

Mycroft sighs. “The party will not be enjoyable, but once it is over we will have several more days before term starts again.”

“What’d happen if you just didn’t go?”

“Believe me, I have contemplated it. My parents would be likely to attempt to collect me, which would be unpleasant. There also remains the fact that I need to appear to comply with their wishes until I have a secure position within the Ministry. My father is still more than capable of making it difficult for me to succeed there.” He sighs. “It will mean appearing to further their agenda while, in fact, working to identify the true reformers within the Ministry, those who wish to ensure that the system can no longer be manipulated in the same way.”

Greg wraps his arm across Mycroft’s chest. “’S’gonna be a difficult balancing act for you.”

“It will be worth it, I believe.” Mycroft hesitates. “Indirectly, I hope that it will also free Sherlock of the kind of pressures that I have experienced from our parents.”

Greg nods, burying his lips in Mycroft’s hair. “You going to Apparate there?”

Slowly, Mycroft nods. “Yes.”

Greg hugs him a little tighter. “Be careful. Don’t want to get you back in bits, alright?”

Mycroft smiles drily. “Thank you, Gregory.”

“At least it means you can just Apparate out again when you’ve had enough. Although you’ll have a walk back from the village.”

“I thought perhaps I should take a broom.”

“You are not Transfiguring the Firebolt again, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft laughs. “The Nimbus would be quite sufficient for my needs.”

Greg grins and kisses his ear. “Alright then. That you can have.”

They climb the stairs to the dormitory hand in hand, Mycroft’s chest tight with nerves. He changes into pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt in the bathroom, does his teeth and attempts to bring order to his hair.

As he settles into bed, Greg pops his head back around the bathroom door. “Can I use your toothbrush? Sorry. I could go and get mine –”

Mycroft waves a hand. “It is not a problem. Please.”

He lies down, heart racing. On the bedside table, his wand gives off soft yellow _Lumos_ light. Mycroft closes his eyes and tries to think about the referencing for his Potions essay.

Greg climbs in next to him, and Mycroft opens his eyes, shifting over to the edge of the bed to give enough room. Greg’s just wearing his t-shirt and boxers, jeans and jumper on the trunk at the end of the bed.

“You’re a long way away,” he grins, holding out his arms. “Come back here.”

Mycroft curls onto Greg’s chest again, and Greg starts to stroke his hair. Mycroft can’t help an _mmm_  of contentment.

“How do you normally sleep?” asks Greg.

“Mmm?”

“On your front? Your side?”

“My side. With one arm under the pillow.”

Greg kisses the top of his head. “I sleep on my back. I take up a lot of the bed, I think.”

“Now you tell me.”

Greg laughs. “I can go.”

Mycroft lifts his head and glares.

“Okay, that’s a no. Never mind.” They lie quiet for a few minutes.

The light glows around them, a soft bubble of intimacy. Mycroft kisses Greg’s chest through his t-shirt, then runs his lips up his neck and along his jawline. When they kiss, Greg’s breath catches in his throat. “If I ask you a question, will you be honest?” asks Mycroft, tentatively.

“I try to be,” says Greg, thumb stroking Mycroft’s cheek. “You okay?”

Mycroft nods. “Is it…does it annoy you that we haven’t been…” he trails off, blushing.

Greg frowns, and then his brow clears. “Annoy me? Myc,” he says softly. “Do I seem annoyed?”

“No,” says Mycroft hurriedly. He bites his lip. “But we are both adults, and as such I assume it would be expected that when – that we –”

“I’m not expecting anything. Just because I want you, doesn’t mean we automatically have to do anything.” His thumb traces the line of Mycroft’s jaw. “When – if – we do that stuff, I want it to be because you really want to. Not out of some feeling of obligation.”

“Not obligation –” protests Mycroft.

“Nah, but you know what I mean,” says Greg. “Trust me, when – if – you actually want to, you’ll know.” More seriously, he adds, “I already did that once. Mistook wanting someone for wanting a relationship.” He shrugs. “Don’t want to make that mistake with you.”

 _He is still deciding what this is,_ thinks Mycroft. “Is it not – frustrating?”

Greg laughs, shifting his head on the pillow. His ash-silver hair glints in the wand-light. “Well a bit, obviously, but I’ve still got _hands,_ Myc.”

Mycroft blushes, and tries to ignore how strongly his body reacts to that particular statement.

Greg grins. “What I’m saying is, stop putting pressure on yourself, because there’s none coming from me, okay?”

Mycroft nods, settling his head on the pillow.

“Can I be big spoon?” asks Greg, kissing the end of his nose. “We need to try out which way’s best.”

Mycroft gives a small smile. “Very well.”

*

He wakes, warm and comfortable, much later than usual. Sunlight streams in through the small leaded window. Mycroft fumbles for his watch and discovers that it is already half-past ten.

That is when he registers Greg’s hand resting on his stomach, relaxed in sleep. Gently, Mycroft lies back down, curling back into Greg’s body. _Just for the warmth,_ he thinks. _Just for a couple of minutes._

He wakes again with Greg kissing his shoulders, the back of his neck. Greg’s hand is running up and down Mycroft’s side in long, smooth strokes.

“Hi,” murmurs Greg when he feels Mycroft move a little.

“What time is it?” asks Mycroft, suddenly alert.

“Just past twelve.”

“I have not slept this many hours in –” Mycroft gives up the attempt to work it out. “A long time.”

Greg kisses his neck, humming pleased appreciation into Mycroft’s skin. “No rush, is there?”

“Well, I ought to work,” says Mycroft guiltily.

“Pfff. You’ve already finished your essays.”

“I should be beginning my revision –”

“Mycroft Holmes, shush. You’re staying in bed with me.”

 _“You_ should be finishing _your_ essays.”

“I have a full first draft of all of them. Just need to write them up using ridiculous ink on ridiculous parchment, and I’ve got ages to do that. Stop worrying and relax.” He tightens his arm around Mycroft’s stomach. “Silly man.”

Mycroft studiously ignores both the fact that Greg is hard against him, and that he himself is in the same state.

“What time’ve you got to leave for your party?” asks Greg, yawning.

“Around seven.” Mycroft’s stomach feels heavy when he thinks about the evening. “I shall fly down to the village and Apparate from there.”

“You’ll probably laugh,” says Greg tentatively. “But I had an idea.”

Mycroft turns over so that he can look at him. His hair is messy, eyes bright and sparkling. Their feet and legs tangle together beneath the covers.

“Morning, gorgeous,” murmurs Greg, leaning in for a quick, chaste kiss.

Mycroft winds his fingers into Greg’s. “Your idea?”

Greg smiles. “Okay, you’re definitely going to laugh, and probably say no – but I assume your parents have waiting staff for this kind of event?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Yes. A catering company.”

“And how are they dressed? The staff?”

Mycroft blinks. “Black trousers and shirt, unless they have changed the uniform since I last attended.”

“Have you got a black shirt I could borrow?”

This time both Mycroft’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh no – Gregory – that is not a good idea –”

“Come on,” says Greg, pulling Mycroft’s hand to his lips and kissing the knuckles. “It’s a great idea. I’ll be able to throw champagne over any prospective arranged fiancées who get handsy with you.”

Mycroft can’t help snorting with amusement. “And what am I supposed to get out of this arrangement?” he says, rolling his eyes. “It sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

“Well my arse looks really good in suit trousers,” Greg grins. “If that helps.”

Mycroft blushes. “Gregory.”

“Seriously though,” smiles Greg. “I’d be there for moral support. Surely that’d make it a bit less awful? Promise I won’t assault any of your prospective wives, even if they’re crawling all over you.”

Mycroft laughs quietly. “It would certainly make the party more entertaining,” he says. “But we cannot risk it. Both my parents are accomplished Legilimens. I cannot risk them finding out that we are –” he hesitates.

“Alright,” says Greg, “but come on – you’ve had Occlumency lessons, and why would they even _look_  at my brain? I’ll just be some waiter. Why would they bother?”

Mycroft has to admit the truth of this. His parents are unlikely to even register the presence of the staff, let alone to think of them as individuals. He bites his bottom lip. _Having Greg there – even just being able to see him as I spend the evening with people I despise –_

“I – I have to admit that I am tempted.”

Greg grins. “You’d have to take me Side-Along for the Apparition though, I’ve got no way to visualise it. Could end up anywhere.”

Mycroft grimaces. “That is not a good idea. I have not undertaken such a long Apparition before, let alone with a passenger.”

Greg puts both hands on Mycroft’s face. “I know you can do it. You’re so so _so_ clever. And also gorgeous.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, trying to fight the blush. “Gregory…”

“Just think about it for a bit,” says Greg. “You don’t have to decide now.”

“I…” Mycroft hesitates.

Greg leans in and kisses him gently, closed-mouth soft pecks on the lips. “What, mister?”

“I – admit that there is some reluctance on my part because you may…” he takes a breath. “You may see me in a different light.”

“What? Flirting with all those eligible women?” Greg grins.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Acting in my parents’ interests. Behaving as…as they do.”

Greg shakes his head vehemently on the pillow, suddenly serious. “I know you’re not like them, Myc. I know you’ll have to pretend, and you’ll have to do it for a while – it’s not like it’s just tonight, is it? Even once you’re at the Ministry –” he bites his bottom lip. “But I saw what he was like with you, and you’re not like _that._ You’d never – you’d never treat someone like that.” His eyes are wide and earnest.

Mycroft rolls onto his back and stares up at the canopy over the bed. “Sometimes I wonder,” he says quietly. “I have spent so long acquiescing with their wishes.”

Greg rolls on top of him, heavy and warm. He puts both hands around Mycroft’s face. “Stop that, mister,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “Listen to what I say. I’m extremely wise and you have to listen to me.”

Mycroft cannot help a smile. “Yes, Gregory,” he says meekly. He tries not to blush. He is sure that Greg can feel how hard he is. But then, Greg is hard against his stomach, too.

“How long did we sleep, then?” asks Greg, stroking Mycroft’s hair back from his face.

“I think it is around eleven hours,” says Mycroft, shamefacedly.

“Stop looking like that!” says Greg, poking Mycroft’s cheek with the tip of his nose. “You needed it. You definitely don’t sleep enough.”

“Nonsense.”

“Don’t nonsense me,” Greg grins, then casts his eyelashes down. “I actually…” he hesitates. “I actually have a question too. About…us. This.”

Mycroft nods. “Yes.”

“You don’t mind me being like – this, do you?” he says, stroking Mycroft’s cheek. “Even though we’re not…doing more at the moment, I just want to touch you and kiss you and stuff. All the time. Is that okay? You have to tell me if it’s not.” He bites his lip then adds, “and it doesn’t mean I’m expecting anything else.”

Mycroft runs his hands up Greg’s arms. His heart turns over slowly in his chest. “Gregory…” he says, unsure how to express what he means. “This is – I could never not want this. Thank you.”

Greg nuzzles his head onto Mycroft’s shoulder, lips soft against his neck. “At least I know how to make you sleep well now.”

“Oh?”

“Stroke your hair. You should learn to be an Animagus. You’d definitely be a cat.”

Mycroft huffs his amusement. “You would be a fox.”

Greg raises his head, frowning quizzically. “Why?”

“Silver…”

Greg pokes him in the ribs. “Oi! I’m not old!”

“Older than me –”

“Bastard…” Greg nips at his neck.

Mycroft can’t help laughing as Greg continues to tickle him. “I am not saying you are old. In your case, it would simply mean ‘extremely attractive silver-haired man’.”

“Hmm,” says Greg, ceasing to poke him. “Extremely attractive, eh?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Do not be disingenuous, Gregory.”

Greg’s eyebrows shoot up. “Hey.”

Mycroft looks at him with surprise for a few moments. “You are correct. My apologies. I have not _told_ you how attractive I find you, because I assumed that it was obvious to you, and that you must know how objectively handsome you are. But I should –” he pauses, searching for the words. “Your looks take my breath away.”

Greg’s eyes are deep and soft, his expression suddenly serious. “Myc,” he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss.

*

Somehow, getting up, taking showers and having lunch seems to take a long time. Every stage is delayed by the necessity to touch and kiss and hold.

Late in the afternoon, Greg goes back to Gryffindor Tower to pick up his suit trousers, and Mycroft searches out the black shirt. He irons it carefully by magic, then hangs it over the back of a chair. He brushes his teeth and does his hair, then pulls on the trousers of his formal suit and a white shirt.

Mycroft is tying his tie – a shade more sober than electric blue – when Greg returns, trousers slung over his arm.

He slips his arms around Mycroft’s waist and kisses him. “You look ridiculously good in a suit.”

“You have made certain claims about your own assets in formal wear.”

Greg grins and helps knot Mycroft’s tie. “You’ll see.”

Mycroft smiles, then puts both hands on Greg’s shoulders. Tentatively, searching Greg’s face for signs of approval or dissent, he lets his hands run down to the hem of his t-shirt. He allows the tips of his fingers to slip beneath it for a moment, touching the warm, flat skin of Greg’s stomach.

His eyebrow flickers a question. Greg smiles, puts his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders, then lifts his arms above his head. Mycroft pulls his t-shirt off and drops it to the floor. Slowly, he runs his hands down from Greg’s collarbones over his chest and stomach. The soft, tanned skin tenses a little beneath his fingertips.

“Is this acceptable?”

“Of course.” Greg’s smile is warm, but he sounds a little breathless. Curiously, Mycroft runs his fingers up Greg’s strong arms, then explores the contours of his shoulders. In Greg’s neck, he feels the rapidly-beating pulse against his palm.

“You look at me as if you’re trying to learn me.” Greg’s voice is hushed.

Mycroft blinks. “Perhaps I am.” He looks down into Greg’s brown eyes. “Does it bother you?”

Greg shifts his feet, and takes Mycroft’s hand. “Dunno if I’m worth it,” he says, with a lopsided smile.

Mycroft gives a disbelieving half-shake of the head, and kisses him.

*

“D’you want to do a test run without me?” asks Greg. “Or will that just make you tired?”

Mycroft hesitates, shifting his feet in the snow, considering what would be best. “Perhaps that would be a good idea,” he says cautiously. “I can work out the best place for us to arrive, and visualise it more strongly.”

Greg nods and pats his pocket. “I’ve got the address. If I have to, I can just follow you.”

“Don’t, Gregory,” says Mycroft, taking a half-step closer and laying long fingers on Greg’s chilly cheek. “The thought of you being splinched –”

“Oi,” grins Greg. “I passed the same Apparition test you did.”

Mycroft sighs. “I know. My apologies.”

Greg gives him a complicated little smile and pushes up into a kiss. “Go on, gorgeous. Go and see how it looks. I’ll give you ten minutes, and if you’re not back I’m coming too.”

He turns on the spot, visualising the garden of his parents’ house, the place near the staff entrance, behind the large beech tree. Unless the guests are lost, none of them should be using that entrance. It will be dark, illuminated only by the light spilling from the windows and the open door of the bustling kitchen, full of staff pouring champagne and serving canapés.

The place he used to hide as a child, on nights when his parents wanted to show him off as their son and heir _– only nine, you know, and already so clever at Transfiguration! –_ paraded like a show pony before the sycophants who applauded his not-extraordinary genius for the power it could buy them at the hands of his parents.

The place from which, sometimes, he would emerge when Mrs Hudson tipped him the wink, and gave him a seat in the corner of the teeming kitchen, along with a little treat – a profiterole, perhaps, or a bowl of strawberries and cream.

Space seems to bend and contract, and the sensation of being squeezed, flattened, is almost unbearable –

He feels the loud _crack_ in his skin, his bones and teeth and –

– it is raining in Sussex, not as cold, the beech tree dripping around him as he grabs at the trunk with one hand, winded and gasping.

It is strikingly as it always was. From the ballroom, he can hear classical music; in the kitchen, though, all is frantic hurry, instructions called and crockery clinking. There is no-one around. Here is as good as anywhere.

He thinks about Hogsmeade again, and turns on the spot.

“Hi,” says Greg, taking a few quick steps forward to steady him. The relief is clear in his voice. “All okay?”

Mycroft nods, and closes his eyes for a second.

“Hey, Myc,” says Greg gently. “What’s up? Was the Apparition okay, or –”

Mycroft opens his eyes. He stares rather blankly at the window of the _Three Broomsticks._ “No, I –” he sighs, not knowing how to explain. “I simply know already – how the evening will be.” He flicks his gaze to Greg’s face, then down to the snowy ground. “It is nothing.”

Greg steps close and puts his arms around him. “It’s not nothing.” He is shivering; they deliberately had not burdened themselves with warm clothing, so that if necessary they could leave quickly and easily, but Mycroft has a formal jacket, at least.

“Let us go,” says Mycroft flatly.

Greg pulls back, nods, and takes hold of his arm. “Come on then, gorgeous.”

_Tight, relentless pressure – focus, Mycroft, focus, or you will be the reason that this goes wrong – the spot beneath the Beech tree, rain and the sound of the kitchen –_

– they fall against the tree, the back of Mycroft’s jacket scraping bark; he catches Greg and holds him –

“Gregory?”

“I’m okay, Myc, stop worrying,” he says in the darkness, and Mycroft can hear his smile. “Merlin, that feels like shit. Way worse than the Floo. Jesus.”

Mycroft can’t help a little smile in the dark, and he pulls Greg close, slides his hands around his waist. “Shhh. We are not far from the kitchen.”

“Sorry,” whispers Greg. He pushes Mycroft back against the trunk of the tree and kisses him slowly.

“Gregory, my jacket –”

“Sod the jacket. I’m giving you something to remember me by when the flirting kicks off.”

Mycroft huffs a laugh. “I suspect you vastly overestimate how much effort is put into an arranged marriage on the part of the couple, as opposed to their families.”

“Just in case, though,” says Greg, nudging kisses under Mycroft’s jaw.

Mycroft snorts quietly and pushes him away. “Check the back of my jacket, please.”

Greg brushes down the back of his jacket. “So I’ll sneak into the kitchen once you’ve gone,” he whispers. “And see you in a bit.”

“I hope so,” says Mycroft. He pulls down his cuffs and straightens his tie. “You remember the signal?”

“Yeah. And we’ll meet back here.”

“Yes. If necessary – you will be able to return to Hogsmeade without trouble, will you not?”

“’Course. But it won’t come to that.” Greg pulls him down for a kiss. “Off you go, gorgeous.”

Mycroft sighs, and draws himself up tall. He stalks away down the side of the house.

At the front entrance, Trenholme nods him through to the hall. “It is nice to see you, Sir.”

“You too, Trenholme. I hope you are well.”

“Indeed Sir, as always. Your parents are in the Library. They would be glad to see you, I am sure.”

Mycroft stands in the shadow of the imposing sweep of the staircase in the hall, blocking out the echoing chatter and shrieks of false delight as acquaintances greet one another. He closes his eyes for a moment, long fingers pressed together, summoning the peaceful blankness that had been slowly, painfully instilled in him during so many Occlumency lessons.

Opening his eyes, he straightens his posture and steps into the Library.

“– only one option open to them, Siger, in order to influence the situation, and I fail to see how that could possibly be of advantage to us –”

“You do not consider, my dear, that in just a few months we shall have more influence than we have had for years –”

“Mother. Father.” Mycroft comes to a halt next to one of the uncomfortable leather armchairs grouped around the fire. He rests his fingertips on the swell of its cold, polished leather back.

They look up from where they stand, at the mantelpiece. His mother, tall and slim, russet hair shot through with white, comes to meet him, hands outstretched. “Darling boy,” she croons. “I have not seen you for so long. Have you grown? I am sure you have grown taller since the summer.”

“I do not believe so, Mother,” he says, bending obediently to be kissed on the cheek. “Are you well?”

“Very well, thank you darling,” she smiles. “We hear nothing but wonderful reports of your progress at Hogwarts.”

He ducks his head, wishing that this praise could leave him cold. Part of him still craves it, the need to be found extraordinary. _Even if you were to fail,_ he reminds himself, _you would not be allowed to do so in reality. The Holmes family name is important before all else._

“Sherlock, too, is exceeding in every subject,” he says, holding out his hand to his father.

“Oh, indeed. _Such_ an intelligent little boy,” says his mother, but she is already turning to Siger. “Now, darling, there are just a few matters we need to discuss with you before we join the party.”

His father motions to the armchairs, and they sit. Mycroft guards his thoughts, mind carefully blank. He has not so far felt any assault on his defences, but his parents are skilled and he is not guaranteed to notice.

There are several people his father wants him to meet, and the timetable for the party seems to be mostly being introduced to people who will be useful, important or grateful once Mycroft has a place at the Ministry. He nods as his parents outline each person’s utility, as well as pertinent information about their family background and pressure points.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticks ponderously, as it has always done. It was the soundtrack to so much of his reading, as a child; to so many hours of tutoring. It formed the background, too, to his Occlumency lessons, a distractingly easy noise to focus on as the tutor reached out to attack his mind.

Mycroft blocks out the sound. _Focus._

“Now then, on to more pleasant matters,” says Siger, with an insinuating smile. Mycroft keeps his expression neutral and enquiring.

His mother smiles at him. “The Carrows, the Mulcibers and the Rowles have brought their daughters. They are all keen, of course, to contract an alliance with a family such as ours. I would _urge_ you to speak particularly with Malvina Carrow. Nemesis would be delighted.”

Mycroft nods, mind as blank as he can make it.

The ballroom is full by the time they enter. No sense of ceremony attends their entrance; his mother leaves Mycroft’s side immediately, holding out her hands to an acquaintance, exclaiming loudly how pleased she is to see her. Siger guides Mycroft around the room, shaking hands and kissing cheeks.

Mycroft is pleasant, bland, and modest, despite the unwarranted praises heaped on him by both his father and a host of acquaintances.

The sound of the string quartet rises above the roar of the crowd, and champagne is pressed into Mycroft’s hands. He tries to sip it slowly, and pours some of it away into an arrangement of hothouse flowers when he can.

His father catches him in the action, and smirks. “Not to your taste?”

“I prefer to keep a clear head until our business is complete.”

Jovial smile in place for the crowd, Siger nods. “A few more people to meet. After that, you can go and talk to the young ladies. There’ll be time for drinks with them.”

Mycroft acknowledges this with a half-smile. “Indeed. I believe I see Reginald Selwyn by that pillar.”

The most unbearable aspect of it all is the casual suggestion of threat that lies beneath his father’s every interaction. Mycroft shakes hands and exchanges pleasant small talk, but he never believes that these people are truly his parents’ friends. Instead, the room is a tangled net of power – snaring some, the means of advancement for others. He can see it in their eyes, the greedy grasp for power that is equally desirable and disgusting to them. No-one in the room is pressing hands or exchanging kisses for simple reasons of affection.

_Do not think about Gregory._

_Blank. Stay blank._

_I wonder if Sherlock knew I would be here._

_Of course he knew. I always do what they ask, after all._

_At what point does a long-term plan stop being a plan, and become simple collusion?_

_Focus._

His father steers him towards the side of the ballroom, picking up two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray and pressing them into his hands.

“I believe we have concluded what business we must, for now,” says Siger smoothly. “I see Malvina is in the windowseat. Your mother would be very pleased if you take the time to speak to her.”

Heart sinking, face as blank as he can make it, Mycroft takes the glasses of champagne. “Thank you, Father.”

Siger clasps his shoulder, and gives him a horribly conspiratorial smirk. “Have a good evening, son.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath as he approaches the windowseat. Even were he attracted to the tall, dark girl sitting there, searching through her bag, this would be the last method he would choose to approach her.

_Focus. Play the part._

“Good evening.” He holds out a glass of champagne. “Might I join you?”

She smiles up at him, and takes the glass. “Mycroft.” They shake hands.

“Malvina. It has been a long time since we last met.”

“Years.” Her eyes are so grey as to be almost black. “I attend Beauxbatons, of course.”

“My mother mentioned that your parents had decided on it.”

She nods, and sips her champagne, glances out of the condensation-run window.

“You are a year younger than me, are you not? What do you plan to do once you finish school?”

“Oh, the Ministry I expect,” she says listlessly. The indifferent tone of someone who has been taught, from childhood, that their only function is to marry and produce heirs. “You know.” Another gulp of champagne. “And you?” she smiles. “A glittering career awaits, I am sure.”

He half-shakes his head. “One can only hope.”

“Don’t pretend modesty,” she says, tossing back the last inch of champagne. Her voice has taken on a rather ghastly note of flirtation. “I hear nothing but praise of your prospects.”

Mycroft is opening his mouth to reply when a familiar voice stops him.

“Champagne, miss?” Greg’s slim form bends over them to offer the tray. Malvina barely spares him a glance as she exchanges her empty glass for a full one.

“For you, Sir?” Greg holds out the tray.

Mycroft holds up his own glass of champagne, not yet even half empty. He hardly flicks his eyes to Greg. “No, thank you.”

“Very well, Sir.” Greg moves away, although he doesn’t go far. He stations himself nearby, holding out the tray.

_Focus. He will understand. Do not think about that now._

“And your parents? They are well?”

“Oh, yes,” she says negligently, waving her hand. “Never better.” She is, perhaps, getting a little tipsy. She leans closer. “Isn’t your _funny_ little brother at Hogwarts now, too?” she smirks. “I remember he made a terrible scene at a dinner party once, when I was home for the holidays.”

Mycroft tries to suppress the way his back instinctively straightens. He relaxes his hands around the stem of the champagne flute. “Sherlock has always been somewhat volatile.”

She snorts a laugh. “Ha. You can say that again.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “My parents were so offended. Honestly, I didn’t know if they’d come back here again.”

_An unlikely assertion, since many of your father’s business dealings depend on handshake deals with people my father discreetly puts him in touch with._

“A phase, I assure you,” Mycroft says smoothly. “Things are changing now that he is at school.”

“Hmm.” She gulps her champagne, the choker of black diamonds at her neck winking in the light from the chandeliers. She glances restlessly towards the fogged window again. “I’m bored. Shall we go for a walk? I understand your parents’ rose garden –”

Mycroft gives a half-shake of the head. “Unfortunately, I believe it is still raining,” he says regretfully. “The fireworks will be viewable from the balconies and the veranda, but otherwise –” he glances down at her dainty shoes “– I suspect a trip into the gardens would be unwise.” He finishes his glass of champagne and places it on the windowsill. “It is, perhaps, an evening more suited to dancing.” He holds out his hand. “I am sure the ensemble will oblige us, if you would care to dance.”

He hears what might have been a derisive snort from nearby. Malvina takes his hand, slipping it through his arm as they move to the dancefloor.

In the corner of his eye, Mycroft sees his mother signalling to the quartet. She takes his father’s arm.

Siger and Daphne join Mycroft and Malvina in the opening steps of the waltz. Quickly other couples flow onto the floor, until there is quite a press of dancers manoeuvring around the hall.

It feels both familiar and strange to lead, now.

The crowd around the dancefloor is just a blur of faces, but there is a flash of ash-silver as they spin. Mycroft’s heart is heavy in his chest. He keeps his expression carefully shuttered, hands high and posture impeccable. He smiles at Malvina, her cheeks a little flushed, dark grey eyes glittering.

_Focus. He will understand._

_Do not think about him._

As the first dance ends, Mycroft’s mother smiles at him. He watches her turn away, exchanging significant glances with Nemesis.

The dances flow into one another after that, and he is happy to keep going, because it is easier to dance than to carry on a conversation with a girl he barely knows. They speak occasionally, but mostly they simply spin around the floor. She yields to him, supple and graceful, turning at his lightest indication. Beauxbatons is famous for its dance teaching, and it shows.

At ten to midnight, the music halts. Siger taps a glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, friends, the fireworks will begin soon. Please do take your places on the veranda and the balconies, and ensure your glasses are charged for the countdown!” he smiles benevolently. There is a smattering of applause and cheering as he leads the way towards the ornate veranda doors.

Malvina’s hand is warm, tucked into Mycroft’s elbow. She squeezes his arm. “Shall we?”

“Forgive me,” he says smoothly. “But I must excuse myself for a moment.” He makes a prim gesture towards the stairs. “I shall join you on the veranda in just a few minutes.”

She smiles at him, eyes bright. “Don’t be long. Don’t want to miss the countdown.”

He makes for the stairs, against the flow of the majority of people. Some are heading for the balconies on the upper floor, and he uses their momentum to push through the crowd.

Smiling impersonally at anyone who hails him, he makes it up the stairs and into a bathroom. Leaning his hands on the sink, he stares at his own reflection. Cheeks flushed after so much dancing, a lock of his hair has worked itself loose, fallen forward onto his forehead. He smooths it back into place.

The door behind him opens, closes and is locked before Mycroft can react, and then Greg is spinning him round, arms around his waist, kissing him feverishly. Mycroft is pressed back against the wall, hands on Greg’s shoulders, tangling in his soft silver hair – a growl in the back of Greg’s throat as he kisses Mycroft’s face, his neck –

“Gregory – Greg –”

“Myc –” Greg is flushed, arms tight around Mycroft’s waist. His lips twist and he pulls back. “I’m sorry – I –” he rubs his hands over his face, pushes them through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he says, more softly. Tentatively, he puts a hand on Mycroft’s cheek. “Turns out I’m a jealous bastard,” he says shakily. “I’m so sorry for –” he gestures.

“Gregory,” murmurs Mycroft. “I apologise for this evening. I should never have – it was not fair that you should be here.”

“No. _No, _”__ says Greg emphatically, eyes wide. “You _told_  me what it’d be like. I just – I wanted to make sure you’re still –”

He doesn’t say it, but Mycroft can almost see the word on his lips: _mine._

“I am,” he says quietly.

Outside, the countdown begins. _Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven –_

Greg steps closer. “I haven’t fucked it up?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No.”

“Can I kiss you?” He drops his gaze to the floor. “They say you should kiss someone special at midnight on New Year’s Eve.” When he looks up, his eyes are dark.

_– Four. Three. Two –_

Mycroft dips his head and kisses him, hard and slow, biting gently at his bottom lip. Greg’s breath catches in his throat and he presses up, tiptoes, one hand in the small of Mycroft’s back and the other on his face.

Outside, the crowd cheers and the fireworks crack and fizz, the long bass _boom_ of the larger explosions rumbling beneath.

They separate, eyes locked, and Mycroft’s breath comes irregularly. His heart seems to beat with the sound of the blasts.

Greg puts a hand over Mycroft’s heart. “Start as you mean to go on for the year, they say,” he murmurs.

Mycroft smiles, slowly, and covers Greg’s hand with his own.

*

“Where did you get to for the fireworks, son?” asks Siger, grasping him by the shoulder. “Didn’t see you.”

Mycroft shutters his mind. “I apologise, Father. I was on the balcony,” he says, flicking his eyes up in indication. “I was caught in conversation and did not manage to get downstairs in time.”

He had slipped onto the balcony as the fireworks continued, deliberately drawing attention to himself by dropping a glass of champagne. He had soon been waylaid by another of Daphne’s acquaintances, who kept him talking for some little time. At any rate, people had seen him there.

Daphne joins them, a hand on Mycroft’s arm. “Well, darling.” Her smile is triumphant. “Do you think perhaps you have been a little _undiplomatic_ in showing such a _decided_ preference for Malvina?”

She does not mind, Mycroft knows. She is simply enjoying the scandal. “Perhaps sometimes diplomacy is overrated, Mother,” he says, knowing that this will only sharpen her enjoyment of the situation. The comment will be reported to Nemesis at the first opportunity. She smirks, and exchanges a glance with Siger.

Sensing his opportunity, Mycroft puts down the glass of champagne and looks regretfully at his parents. “Unless you wish to discuss anything further,” he says meekly, “would you mind if I Apparate back to school? The walk from the village up to Hogwarts will be somewhat slow in the snow, and I have arranged to use the Potions dungeon for some research work tomorrow.”

“Of course, darling,” says Daphne, leaning up to kiss him on both cheeks. Siger holds out his hand, then slips his arm around his wife’s waist. “Good luck for this term, son,” he says, smiling affably. “Safe trip home.”

In the dark, as he walks along the side of the house, he draws his suit jacket around himself against the rain and the cold.

_I am always your ‘son’ when I have done what you want._

_And I’ll give both of your love to Sherlock._

Greg pulls him in, under the dripping canopy of the beech tree. “Bloody hell, I’m freezing,” he whispers. His hands are like ice on Mycroft’s face. “Shall I take us back? You must be knackered after all that dancing.”

“Please,” is all Mycroft says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The observant among you will have noticed that the story now has a chapter limit: fifteen chapters! So what's the plan? 
> 
> I'm bringing Part 1 of this story to an end in the next chapter. And then my plan is to write a Part 2 (shorter, probably...although you know what I'm like) which will have an Explicit rating, and will cover the boys' final term at Hogwarts and the start of their time at the Ministry. It's planned, but not written yet, so I'm going to get a start on that and post when I've mapped it all out. ❤️


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for being wonderful readers! You give me such encouragement and happiness with your lovely kudos and comments.

“And you think your mum and – whatsername – Nemesis Carrow – are going to think things are signed and sealed now?”

Mycroft curls his legs more comfortably with Greg’s. “I suspect they will regard it as relatively certain, yes.”

“Hmmph.” Greg slips his hand up inside Mycroft’s sleep t-shirt, chilly fingers making him yelp.

“Gregory!”

Greg chuckles. “Sorry.” He pulls Mycroft closer. “Are you engaged, then?” he adds miserably. “Or…”

“Malvina is a year below us at Beauxbatons. No formal engagement will be expected before she finishes her education. I should have a year, at the Ministry, to plan and execute whatever strategy is available to me.” His fingers are restless, twisting in the fabric of Greg’s t-shirt.

Greg sweeps his palm over the smooth skin of Mycroft’s back. “D’you think you can get it done in time?”

Mycroft deliberately stills his fingers and releases Greg's t-shirt, annoyed with his own uneasy fidgeting. “Truly, I am unsure. I have no accurate way to assess the situation until I enter the Ministry. But I shall have to work relatively fast.”

Greg nods, glumly. “So – for now, I guess – that means we should keep things…” Greg hesitates, “…under wraps. Right?”

“Yes.” _And it will be far better for you not to have to endure the opprobrium and hilarity of our classmates for having carried on a Christmas liaison with someone like me._ Mycroft turns his head away, glancing out of the window. “Breakfast?”

*

“Oh Myc, come _on,_ I’ve already finished one essay today…”

“You have another left to finish! There are just two days until lessons start again.”

“Exactly! There are only two days of holiday left. My Potions one isn’t even due until the end of the first week back, I could write it up any time. If we stay here, I can’t kiss you…”

“In the first week back, you will be receiving homework every night and resuming a full Quidditch practice schedule. You will hardly be able to write up your essay ‘any time’.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “What are you anyway, my conscience? Half the students won’t’ve even started their essays yet,” he grumbles, blotting the end of his completed Transfiguration essay.

“Just because they choose wilful mediocrity does not mean you have to,” says Mycroft loftily.

Greg snorts, squeezing Mycroft’s foot between his own beneath the library table. “Grumpy.”

Mycroft shoots him a baleful glance. “You have an excellent brain, Gregory. You should make the most of it.”

Greg grins. “I’ll leave it to science.”

Making a little _tsk_ noise in the back of his throat, Mycroft turns to a late chapter of his Arithmancy textbook, and begins taking revision notes. _I am grumpy. Spiky and demanding and worthless, pushing him away, because I know this is coming to an end soon. We can ignore the subject all we like, but we both know that once the others are back, Gregory’s exile will be over, and the appeal of a – this, with me, will fade as rapidly as the snow melts._

*

“Come back to bed.” Greg peers at Mycroft through bleary eyes, just lifting his head from the pillow. “You must be freezing out there, and I’m cold without you.”

When Mycroft doesn’t move from the windowseat, Greg reaches a hand out from under the covers. “’S’our last lie-in,” he says. “Let me spend it with you.”

Slowly, Mycroft gets up and walks back to the bed, slipping under the duvet.

“God, Mycroft, you’re freezing – how long’ve you been out there?”

“I –” he isn’t really sure. He did not sleep well. “Not long.”

“Hmm,” says Greg, skeptically. “Put your feet on my – legs – oh my god –” he laughs through gritted teeth as Mycroft does so. “Bloody hell.”

Mycroft buries his face in Greg’s neck, breathing in the intoxicating scent of his skin. Hiding his own expression.

“Hey,” says Greg softly, stroking his hair. “You okay?”

“Certainly,” says Mycroft, and he is proud of keeping his voice calm and even.

“What d’you want to get up to today?” Quickly, Greg adds, “and don’t say work. We’re not working on our last day of holiday.”

Mycroft nuzzles more closely into Greg’s neck. “A late breakfast at the _Three Broomsticks?”_ he asks tentatively. “And perhaps a walk around the grounds.”

“Mmm, perfect,” says Greg, slipping both arms around Mycroft’s waist. “C’mere.”

“I am here, Gregory.”

“More here.”

Mycroft can’t help smiling against the soft skin at the base of Greg’s neck. His heart wrenches in his chest, knowing that this is the last time they will lie here like this.

“’M not going to be able to do without this,” murmurs Greg, into his hair. “This is good.”

_I do not know what to say. What can I say?_

Greg kisses Mycroft’s ear. “We getting up then?”

_I just want you to keep holding me, like this._ “It is still relatively early. We could try to sleep a little longer.”

Greg chuckles. “Merlin. Are you feeling okay?”

Mycroft smiles, but his eyes sting treacherously. He rolls over quickly, curling himself back into Greg’s body as the little spoon. “Still somewhat tired, I think,” he says quietly.

Greg wraps his arm over him and cuddles his knees behind Mycroft’s. “Right then. Get to sleep, mister.”

Mycroft closes his eyes, worrying at his bottom lip. He tries to memorise the lines of Greg’s body against his own.

*

“Well, dears, here for that breakfast then?” asks Madam Rosmerta. “What can I get you?”

Once tea, coffee and porridge have been ordered, Greg reaches across the table to take Mycroft’s hand. Quickly, Mycroft draws it back and dips his head, pretending to search for something in the pocket of his robes.

When he turns back, Greg smiles at him, but there’s a very faint line of worry between his eyebrows.

Mycroft keeps his hands in his lap, beneath the table. “When is your first Quidditch practice scheduled?” he asks, carefully.

Greg gives him a lopsided smile. “Tuesday morning. They can have one day to sort themselves out, then it’s up at five-thirty and onto the pitch.”

Mycroft cannot hide his shiver of horror. “Awful.”

Greg grins. “You’ll be up then anyway.”

“Not flying around in icy pre-dawn conditions, however.”

“Dunno, the Slytherin dormitory’s kind of like that…” he laughs at Mycroft’s expression. “You know it’s true.”

Madam Rosmerta carries over a large tray of porridge and their drinks, and sets everything out in front of them. “There you are my dears. You must both be starving after that walk on no food.”

“Mmm,” says Greg appreciatively, inhaling the steam from his porridge. “Can’t wait.”

She smiles and goes back to continue cleaning behind the bar.

Greg passes Mycroft the milk jug. “What we need is an invisibility cloak.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, pouring out a cup of tea. “Oh yes?”

“So you can come and sleep at mine.”

Mycroft gives him a wry half-smile. “A nice thought, Gregory, but you getting up at that time would be most detrimental to my sleep schedule.”

Greg grins. “What sleep schedule? Your schedule seems to involve sleeping as little as possible.”

Mycroft sips his tea. “Hardly. I have been most lazy this holiday.”

Greg outright laughs. “You’re ridiculous.” He takes a spoonful of porridge. “Any shopping you want to do in the village, while we’re here?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I wonder whether Sherlock has eaten the sherbet lemons I gave him.”

“He really has been doing a good job of keeping out of our way.” Greg gulps his coffee. “Although, we have been spending most of our time in your horrible dungeon.”

“If you don’t like it, Gregory –”

Greg smiles. “’S’worth it not to hear the Fat Lady’s opinions.”

“I imagined that she had been sharing them with you every time you returned to Gryffindor Tower.”

“Oh, well yeah, she has. But at least she’s not embarrassing me in front of you.”

Mycroft gives a quick half-smile. “I hope she does not decide to share her thoughts with the rest of the Gryffindor students.”

Greg puts his coffee cup down and looks at Mycroft thoughtfully. “Yeah,” he says quietly, and for a moment Mycroft thinks he is going to speak again, but then he picks up his spoon.

Mycroft murmurs, _“Accio, Daily Prophet,”_ and the newspaper makes its way over to their table.

“You know you do a lot of stuff wandless?” asks Greg.

Mycroft blinks. “I – suppose so.”

Greg gives him a complicated, affectionate little smile. They finish their breakfast, swapping clues for the quick crossword.

*

“’S’beautiful,” says Greg, standing at the edge of the frozen lake. “Although I wonder how the Giant Squid’s doing.”

Mycroft smiles behind his scarf, gloved hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his robes. “I am sure the lake is not frozen in the centre.”

“I feel like we should bring it some hot chocolate or something. Poor thing.” Greg turns to look at Mycroft. “I looked in the Quidditch supply room to see if there were any ice skates, but no luck.” Impulsively, he holds his hands out. “We can walk on it, anyway.”

Mycroft looks warily at Greg’s hands. “That does not sound a particularly good idea –”

“Come on,” smiles Greg. He steps closer, putting his gloved hand on Mycroft’s arm. “Hey, you know the Squid’ll just chuck us out if we fall through.”

“Unless the merpeople attack us first,” says Mycroft, dubiously. But he takes his hands out of his pockets and turns towards the lake.

“I’ll go first,” says Greg, stepping in front of him. Gingerly, he puts a foot on the ice and tests placing his weight on it, then takes a few steps forward. He looks up and smiles, then holds out his hands. “Seems fine.”

Mycroft steps tentatively onto the very edge of the ice, surveying the surface around him. Part of him expects cracks to start appearing round his feet, but nothing happens.

“Come here,” says Greg, beckoning with both hands. He grins as Mycroft starts walking very slowly towards him, testing every step. “You look like Bambi,” he laughs.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I do not know what that is, but I assume that it is not complimentary,” he says drily.

Greg gives him an affectionate smile. “I forget – _Bambi’s_ a film – an old Disney film. Animated.”

“Oh.” It means nothing to Mycroft.

“It’s – well, it’s a pretty sad film, my Mum had to carry me out of the cinema ’cause I was bawling so much the first time I saw it –”

“That sounds wonderful, Gregory.”

Greg chuckles. “Bambi’s a fawn. There’s a scene where he learns to ice skate. You look like him, all legs and eyes.”

Mycroft sighs. “I am still not convinced that being compared to a deer is a compliment. Also, I am sure that deer cannot ice skate.”

Greg grins. “We’ll look it up when we get on the internet in Summer. Pretty sure someone will’ve put up videos of deer doing just that.”

Mycroft stares at him. “How is that…useful?”

Greg looks at him for a long moment and starts to laugh. “Oh, Myc,” he wheezes. “I honestly cannot wait to introduce you to YouTube. And Twitter. Christ…”

Greg only laughs harder at Mycroft’s look of perplexity. He takes a couple of steps forward and catches Mycroft’s hands in his own.

Mycroft glances about them, and feels Greg’s hands tense. He looks down, quickly, into the other boy’s dark brown eyes.

Greg tries to hide his frown, turning away to look out across the lake. “Shall we try going a bit further?”

“I – I don’t know, Gregory –” Mycroft tries to withdraw his hands from Greg’s, but finds himself pinned by Greg’s gaze.

“We’re not visible from the castle,” Greg says, “not with those trees there.” There’s a note of sadness in his voice, and Mycroft looks down at the ice beneath their feet.

The moment lengthens, and Greg gently lets go of Mycroft’s hands, burying his own in his coat pockets.

“Shall we walk?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft, reserved. He tucks his scarf around his face. Understanding that he has hurt Gregory somehow, his stomach squirms miserably.

They exchange the odd remark during the rest of the walk, but mostly they plod through the snow in awkward silence.

*

After dinner, they stand at the bottom of the staircase. The meal passed in slightly stilted conversation with Jen and Nessa, sitting at the Gryffindor table. Mycroft only rarely raised his eyes from his plate, and mostly pushed the food around it, instead of eating.

“Everyone’ll arrive soon, I guess,” says Greg, hugging his coat, which is slung over his crossed arms.

Mycroft nods. “Indeed.”

“So…”

“I had better –” Mycroft gestures down the corridor towards Slytherin Dungeon.

“Right. Right, yeah,” says Greg, looking down at his feet. “And I’ll –” he waves a hand vaguely up the stairs. “So.” He takes a breath. “And I’ll see you tomorrow, in Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

Mycroft gives a terse nod. “Yes.”

“I –” Greg hesitates, then shuts his mouth again. “See you then.”

*

Mycroft lies awake for hours, bed drapes drawn shut, listening to the noisy return of the other seventh-year boys. They thump about, laugh and joke, still hyperactive from their day of travel and a late dinner. Mycroft hugs a pillow, eyes wide open in the darkness. He fights the weak sting of tears, pressing his lips into a tight line.

He wakes deliberately early to use the dormitory bathroom before everyone else, scrubbing himself quickly in the shower and pulling on his uniform. Silently, in the half-light before dawn, he packs his bag and shrugs on his robes. Madam Blackthorn nods tersely to him as he arrives in the library.

He keeps his eyes down at breakfast, answering politely any member of his House who speaks to him, even when they greet him mockingly to accompanying giggles from their friends. As always, his tone is neutral and reserved. He drinks tea, and eats a piece of toast with a little marmalade.

Professor Binns’ History of Magic lesson takes up the entire morning, and as usual it is nothing but reading from the textbook and accompanying primary sources. Mycroft spots several of his classmates surreptitiously reading over – or in a couple of cases, finishing – their holiday essays.

At lunchtime, Mycroft puts in a brief appearance at the Great Hall, but finds himself unwilling to eat. He manages to snatch a few extra minutes in the Library, now frustratingly full of other students, chattering in the loudest whispers they can get away with under Madam Blackthorn’s fierce supervision, bemoaning the number of essays they have to get finished and the amount of homework they have been set in the very first lessons of term.

He arrives at Defence Against the Dark Arts before the majority of his classmates, and the desks around him fill up quickly as a noisy band spill in from lunch; he feels unbearably _conscious,_ listening out for Gregory’s voice among the others, but he cannot pick it out and does not turn around to look for him.

The lesson includes enforced intervals of group work, and Mycroft finds it tedious. He keeps his head low, contributing only as much as he is obliged to.

When he hands in his essay at the end of the class, his hands have started to shake with the _pressure,_ the sheer nervous effort needed to look around, to see where Greg is. He stands to pack his bag, and his gaze is fixed carefully on each object he packs away.

He can hear Greg laughing, somewhere behind him, and suddenly it is too much. As the classroom door opens, Mycroft darts out, eyes fixed on where he is going.

He loses time in the library.

“Holmes,” says Madam Blackthorn acerbically.

He raises his head, jerked back to the present. “Mmm? Oh, please excuse me, Madam Blackthorn.” He looks up at her enquiringly.

“I cannot imagine that the Headmistress would be too pleased to see the Head Boy miss dinner on the first day of term,” says the librarian, raising an eyebrow. “Can you?”

Mycroft glances at his watch and quickly starts to pack away his books. “Thank you,” he says politely.

She does not move away, watching him as he gets to his feet and picks up his bag. “You work too hard, Holmes,” she says, after a moment. “And believe me, I do not say that lightly.”

He gives her a sombre half-smile. “Not at all, Madam Blackthorn, I assure you.”

*

The first Prefects’ meeting of term takes place on Thursday evening. The routine run-through of House points, procedure for the first Quidditch games of term, reporting lines to the Professors, and discussion of the initial Hogsmeade weekends takes a weary hour to run through. Once the usual business has been completed, however, Mycroft reluctantly mentions the idea of the summer ball.

Hortense Runcorn, sixth-year Slytherin prefect, tosses her long brown hair and presses her lips sourly together at the suggestion that the sixth-years should take the administrative and organisational lead.

“The lack of examinations for sixth-years makes them the obvious choice,” says Mycroft, tone neutral.

Cordelia Smethwyck, sixth-year Ravenclaw, rolls her eyes behind Hortense’s back. “Sounds like a good idea to me,” she says, offering Mycroft a quick smile. “I’ll coordinate, if that’d help.”

Mycroft breathes a silent sigh of relief. “Thank you. I suggest that the first step is to approach the Headmistress. Please come prepared to our meeting next week with a list of convincing reasons for such an event.”

By the time Mycroft returns to Slytherin Dungeon, he has a splitting headache. Climbing straight into bed, he draws the curtains around the four-poster and savours the blessed darkness and silence. The summer ball is already shaping up to be a complicated and infuriating waste of time. He pulls his pillow into his arms, cradling his cheek against the cool smooth linen, and tries to sleep.

*

“It may be Friday, but don’t think you’re getting away without homework.” Professor Delane’s light Irish brogue rises above the hubbub as he distributes ingredients to different groups with a flick of the wand. “Get as much of the practical work done as you can now, and I expect an individual report on the method and its improvements from each of you at the start of the next class.”

“We’re alright,” mutters Armand Loxias, slouching down in his chair and crossing his arms. He lets his knees drift wide and nudges his mate Terry Denbright with his elbow. “We’ve got Head Boy Holmes. He’s _perfect_  at everything,” he sneers, fixing malevolently-narrowed eyes on Mycroft.

Mycroft gives them a thin, chilling smile. Loxias’ father is deeply in debt to his own, and would be appalled if he knew how his son behaves at school. “We will distribute the work evenly,” he says, blandly.

“Don’t tell me what we’ll do,” grins Loxias, lounging in a still more contemptuous pose. He nudges Terry again, who looks less than sure about the idea of baiting Mycroft. “You know it’ll be better if you just do it, anyway.” When Mycroft makes no move, he leans across the bench towards him. “Get on with it, or I can always show you what I think of you later. You might be good with a wand,” he mutters. “But you’re just a skinny little ginger twat.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Oh, certainly.” He pauses. “I believe you were there, the last time someone attempted to attack me.”

Loxias grins. “Yeah, but you’re not always on guard, Holmes. Sometimes you sleep, and sometimes you’re in the shower, and I won’t _need_ a wand to make you regret being such a snotty arsehole.”

Mycroft fights the urge to casually mention their fathers’ business dealings. Instead, he pulls his notebook towards him across the table. “I shall weigh out the ingredients and take notes,” he says calmly. “You and Denbright can brew the potion.”

In the end, Loxias doesn’t even bother arguing further. His insults are the kind that Mycroft finds particularly boring – based purely on the idea that to excel is to somehow express weakness. Mycroft knows he will have to stay alert to petty, immature attacks of one sort or another.

His notebook reads, ‘In brewing the potion, do almost anything other than what Loxias and Denbright did.’

*

On Saturday morning, Mycroft wakes very early. He means to head straight to the library, but ends up restlessly climbing the many steps to the Owlery. At the top, he drops his school bag next to the wall and leans his elbows on the windowsill, listening to the rustling air around him, the sounds of birds coming and going, flapping and preening and settling to roost.

It’s freezing, but the view of the sunrise is incredible. The sky, clear of dull grey snow clouds, is lit with the fierce fire of morning, pink and gold striking the horizon. Mycroft tucks his hands into his armpits beneath his robes, and watches as the sun rises.

Lancelot glides lazily down and perches next to him on the windowsill, blinking slowly in the growing light. Mycroft strokes his head, fingers stiff with cold. “It’s alright, Lance,” he murmurs. “I’ve got a letter for my parents – and one for Mrs Hudson – but you’d rather go at night. Too light for you now, isn’t it.” The owl clicks his beak, and Mycroft strokes the soft feathers on the back of his neck. “Later.”

Lancelot blinks again, and flies back up to his perch, far above.

Below, toiling along the snowy path to the Quidditch pitch, are the Gryffindor team. They must be complaining about the early start on a Saturday. Mycroft tells himself that he can’t pick out Greg at this distance, but he can; it’s the way he walks, and the fact he’s leading the group, urging them along.

Hogsmeade, later. Mycroft wonders if Greg will go with anyone.

*

By dinnertime, Mycroft is so chilly in the library that he actually notices for himself and begins to pack away his work. His fingers are stiff and clumsy, and he’s shivering slightly as he makes his way towards the Great Hall.

His steps slow as he gets closer, dragging unwillingly. The idea of eating surrounded by the boisterous members of his House is not appealing. Then again, neither is the idea of returning to Slytherin Dungeon and curling up, alone and hungry, in the too-large expanse of his bed.

In the end, he swerves away from the Great Hall and wrenches open one of the huge castle doors. The intense cold hits him like a wall. There is a biting wind, but the moonlight on the snow is inviting all the same. After an entire day of unmoving solitude, the wish to just _walk_ takes him over. Pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his robes, he strides along the snowy path down to the lake.

Finally, he reaches the spot where he and Greg had stood a week ago. Dropping his schoolbag on a tree-stump, he pulls his robes tight around himself and paces up and down at the edge of the ice.

_I did not realise how much I would miss him. A miscalculation – the physical aspect of the liaison appears to have become rather addictive in a dangerously short time._  Thinking about Greg’s arms around his waist, about his lips buried against his neck, or a soft, slow, sincere kiss – it has the power almost to wind Mycroft, to leave him as breathless as a punch to the solar plexus would. He draws his robes still more tightly around himself and comes to a standstill, staring out across the frozen lake.

Most of all, though, he misses Greg’s thoughts, his opinions, his laugh. _How weak I have become, and how quickly._  He narrows his eyes, taking a deep breath and attempting to reconcile himself to the fact that the rest of the term will be as this week has been.

_I feel like half of myself, now._ The thought is a terrifying one, and Mycroft skirts it warily, trying to rationalise and finding no way to do so. _This – attachment – over Christmas was not wise. A distraction I cannot afford. And a lesson for the future._

“Mycroft?” Greg’s voice is tentative.

Mycroft’s spine stiffens. He does not turn around.

“Saw you walking down,” says Greg, caution in every syllable, but he has come closer all the same. “You’ll miss dinner.”

Mycroft draws down his brows and presses his lips together. He tries to ignore the painful squeezing thump of his heart in his chest. “You are missing it yourself.”

“I’ve eaten.” There’s a pause. “Didn’t see you at lunch, either.”

Mycroft cannot trust his voice to remain steady. He shrugs slightly.

“You were up early this morning,” says Greg. “Saw you up in the Owlery as we were walking to practice.”

Mycroft pushes his hands further into the pockets of his robes. “I had some letters to post.”

“Yeah, I – I was going to fly past to see you but you’d gone by the time we got in the air,” says Greg, and Mycroft winces at the sadness in his voice. “Thought maybe you were planning to spy on our tactics,” adds Greg, trying for a jokey tone.

“As if I could be relied upon to understand them,” says Mycroft, and the humour in his voice is watery, but it’s there all the same.

Greg steps up next to him in the darkness, and Mycroft can feel the intensity of his gaze on the side of his face. He does not dare to meet Greg’s eyes.

There’s a long, full silence.

“Can I ask you a question?” Greg asks, then – with a wan smile in his voice – _“Another_ question.”

Mycroft nods, curtly.

Greg takes a shaky breath. “Are you done with me?”

Mycroft closes his eyes, face turned away. “I –” he stops, simply unsure what to say.

Greg’s sharp intake of breath next to him makes him clench his fists in his pockets. “You could’ve just said, Mycroft,” says Greg, and he’s trying to sound calm, but his voice is shaking.

Mycroft does not move, and Greg turns to go.

The sound of his footsteps on the snowy path ceases. “Y’know what? Actually, I don’t fucking get what’s changed,” he says, and his voice is still unsteady, but now Mycroft is terribly afraid that it is full of sadness, rather than anger. “How did we go from last week to this? If you just wanted some Christmas – _fling_ – maybe you should’ve said so from the start.”

Before he knows what he's doing, Mycroft has wheeled round to face him, staring at Greg in total bewilderment. Greg’s hair is almost glowing in the moonlight, but his dark eyes are wide, innocent with hurt. Mycroft feels it like a punch to the gut.

“Greg –” he takes a step forward, but Greg takes one back.

“It’s not your fault, Mycroft,” says Greg. “Seems you and I thought we were doing very different things.” His mouth twists, and he makes to turn away.

“Greg.” Mycroft is not sure what is happening. His chest feels tight. “Given the nature of the situation – you know that we cannot –”

Greg plants his feet, and looks up at him defiantly. “Last I heard was ‘keep things under wraps’,” he says. “You could’ve said if what you actually meant was ‘we’re done’.”

Mycroft stares down at the path beneath their feet. “I –”

Greg folds his arms. “I don’t think you understand,” he says, and his voice is flat. “How many people d’you think I’ve taken to meet Emma? Boyfriends, girlfriends, I mean. People I’m with.”

Mycroft shakes his head.

“One. You.”

Mycroft does not look up.

“How many people’s family parties d’you think I’ve crashed, just to spend an evening with them?”

Mycroft turns his head away, looking out over the lake.

“One. You.” Greg uncrosses his arms and buries his hands in his pockets. “How many people d’you think I’ve got so fucking jealous over I could barely breathe –” but his voice cracks, and he turns on his heel.

He only gets a few steps away before Mycroft grabs his arm. Greg wrenches it out of his grip, but stands still all the same. His chest heaves with uneven, gasping breaths. “Don’t,” he says, eyes fierce. “It doesn’t matter.”

Mycroft’s heart lurches in his chest. “I – I was not aware that you wished things to continue,” he says quietly. “I thought that – once the other students returned –”

“What, that I’d just been faking all holiday?” asks Greg, voice hard. “Doesn’t say much for what you think of me.”

Mycroft catches his breath, and fights the sting of tears. There is a silence.

“I’m sorry,” says Greg. “I’m sorry. That was a shit thing to say.”

Mycroft shakes his head, staring fixedly at a tree some way off. “I apologise unreservedly.”

“What I should’ve said – without being a _twat_ – is that – that I don’t want this to be over,” says Greg, jerkily. He hunches his shoulders and pushes his hands further into his pockets.

“I do not either,” says Mycroft quietly, and something seems to loosen in his chest as he says the words. “Gregory. I am sorry.”

Greg’s eyes are wide, shadowed in the moonlight. He takes a half-step closer. “I know we can’t – go public or anything,” he says into the freezing winter hush. “But I don’t want to pretend we’re not friends. Not like this week.”

Mycroft blinks. “I – part of this week –” he can feel himself blush in the darkness. He hesitates, unsure how to convey what he means.

“Go on, Myc,” says Greg gently, and the nickname makes Mycroft catch his breath, almost a sob.

“I do not know if I can – if I will be –” he presses his lips together. “Obvious.”

Greg gives a lopsided smile. “I doubt _you’re_  the problem. You managed in front of your whole family and hundreds of guests. My aunt and sister knew straight away.”

Mycroft can’t help a small smile in return, and Greg’s face lights up.

“I can’t do another night, Myc,” he says, hurriedly. “Without you.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I – yes. I know.”

“Room of Requirement?” asks Greg, and he sounds terribly vulnerable. “Stay with me.”

“Yes.” For a moment, Mycroft cannot move, marvelling at the flood of emotion rushing through him. “Yes,” he repeats, picking up his bag from the tree-stump.

“Now?”

“Please.”

*

Mycroft doesn’t have a chance to absorb the details of the room before Greg pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, and Mycroft buries his face against Greg’s silver hair, allowing his eyes to close. He breathes him in, overwhelmed by a wave of _yes, please, finally,_ and he almost whines when he feels Greg starting to pull away. But then Greg’s hands are on his face, and Mycroft opens his eyes to find those wide brown eyes staring up into his, and when Greg presses up to kiss him, he gives himself over completely. They kiss until they’re breathless, and when they pull apart Greg laughs because Mycroft’s schoolbag is still over his shoulder, and he takes it, and helps him remove his robes too.

Mycroft turns and slips his hands under the lapels of Greg’s robes, and pushes them to the floor. Their gazes are locked; Greg’s cheeks are a little pink, his eyes bright, lips kiss-red and swollen.

When Mycroft puts his long fingers on the hem of Greg’s jumper, he murmurs, “Is this –”

Greg nods before he can finish the question. “’Course, Myc.”

“Can we –” Mycroft nods awkwardly to the bed.

“Please.”

Mycroft pulls Greg’s jumper and t-shirt over his head, and runs his hands down Greg’s arms. He bends his head to kiss Greg’s shoulder, suppressing a soft groan at how _good_ – how _simply good_ – it feels to run his lips over that soft, tanned skin.

“Myc,” whispers Greg, fingers clumsy on the buttons of his shirt. When the garment drops to the floor, Greg’s palms run greedily over the soft skin of Mycroft’s back. “Missed you. I missed you so much.”

Mycroft nods, pulling Greg towards the bed, a comfortable-looking double with a large soft duvet.

“Wait. Hang on.” Greg sits on the edge of the bed and slips off his jeans, then climbs under the duvet wearing just his boxers. He holds out his hand.

Mycroft toes off his socks and, still wearing his trousers, clambers under the duvet. Greg pulls him close, pushing their foreheads together, until they are wound round one another head to toe. Greg’s sigh of relief is mixed with an appreciative hum as he leans in for a kiss.

“I am so sorry for this week, Gregory.”

Greg shakes his head. “’S’okay. I –” he hesitates. “I wanted to talk about it all before everyone came back but – but then things were weird on the last day and I didn’t know what to say –”

Mycroft runs his hand slowly over Greg’s chest. “I understand. I did nothing to aid the situation.”

Greg strokes fingertips down Mycroft’s side. For a moment he goes to speak, then pauses, flicking his gaze up to Mycroft’s, and biting his bottom lip. “Just – to be clear,” he says slowly. “I – if you want to, I mean – I’d like us to be – together. In a relationship.”

Mycroft can feel his cheeks turning red. He blinks a few times, then nods. “Yes.”

Greg’s grin is immediate, wide, and absolutely beautiful. Mycroft can’t help but smile in return, and Greg kisses him, slowly, intensely, nipping gently at his bottom lip until Mycroft’s breath catches in his throat.

“I know we can’t be obvious about it,” Greg murmurs, “but we can hang out, right? Sit together in class, go to Hogsmeade, all that. I’ll just try not to stare at you like I want you all the time.” He presses kisses along Mycroft’s jawline. “As if,” he mutters into Mycroft’s ear.

Mycroft nudges Greg’s head with his own. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you._ Boyfriend,” adds Greg, grinning as Mycroft raises an eyebrow. He runs his hand down Mycroft’s arm and finds his watch, then starts to undo it. “Don’t need this. We can have a lie-in tomorrow.”

Mycroft smiles. “We both have plenty of homework, I am sure.”

“And we’ll go to the library to get it done, like the respectable students we are,” grins Greg. “In the afternoon.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but makes no attempt to stop Greg from taking his watch.

Greg turns over and opens the drawer in the bedside table. For a moment, he freezes, then puts the watch on top of the table, casually closes the drawer and turns back. His cheeks are slightly flushed.

Mycroft looks at him for a moment. “Gregory?”

“Mmm?” Greg wraps his arms around Mycroft’s waist and starts to kiss his neck.

“What is in the drawer?”

“Nothing,” mumbles Greg, nibbling Mycroft’s earlobe.

Mycroft rolls over him, holding Greg’s body down with his own. Greg, half-laughing, says, “Mycroft – don’t –”

The drawer is full –  _full_ – of different kinds of condoms and lube. Mycroft goes bright red, and closes it again. Underneath him, Greg starts to laugh, and when Mycroft rolls away to lie next to him, Greg puts both hands over his face. “I’m sorry,” he giggles.

Mycroft can’t help it. He starts to laugh too. “You’re the one who –”

“Argh,” groans Greg through his hands. “Shut up.”

“Always equipped for the seeker’s needs –”

“Oh my god, please shut up,” mumbles Greg. “I’m sorry – that’s not – I’m not –”

Mycroft huffs with laughter, and tries to pull Greg’s hands away from his face. “I know, Gregory. I promise.”

Slowly, Greg lets his hands fall to the bed, and Mycroft leans down. They kiss, lightly, and Mycroft tangles his long fingers gently through Greg’s hair.

“’S’kind of like my room at home,” says Greg, when they settle again, curled together. “Bigger, though. And I don’t have an ensuite.” He nods to the open door of a small shower room. “What kind of room d’you think we’d get if you’d done the spell?”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, trying to think. “I am not sure. Probably not my room at home.”

“Mmm?” hums Greg, enquiringly.

“Large. Cold. Ornate.”

“Ah.”

Mycroft half-shrugs. “I truly do not know.”

“We’ll find out next time.” Greg grins sheepishly. “Hopefully the Room won’t embarrass you too.”

Mycroft snorts. “Nonsense, Gregory. It is good to know that the Room believes in safe sex.”

“Oh, Merlin…” Greg shoves Mycroft gently and turns red again. “How many times a week d’you reckon we can get away with sleeping here?” he asks, kissing Mycroft’s nose. “My bed feels about four times too big without you.”

“I confess I have been experiencing the same phenomenon,” sighs Mycroft, running his lips softly over Greg’s shoulder. “But we cannot be too obvious in our absences.”

“Nah,” mumbles Greg, sadly. There’s a pause. He wraps both arms firmly around Mycroft and pulls him close. “Never mind that now, anyway,” he says. “You’re mine for tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you'll tune in for Part 2 once it's written! :)


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